Salt and Sunshine
by SmurfLuvsCookies
Summary: Surviving and living are not the same. To survive is to turn and hide from a storm, to seek shelter from the thunder. To live is to face the mightiest of tempests, screaming, crying, quaking, dying, and believe in your heart that daylight lies just beyond the horizon. PARTNER to "Sea Glass"
1. District Four: The Reaping

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **R**eaping

* * *

><p>When my eyes snap open to the sound of a glass bottle shattering on the ground, I know my father is finally home. I roll over on my back and groan after I hear a thump that signifies he has passed out somewhere. Normally I wouldn't care, it happens too often, but in a few hours the reaping for the 65th Hunger Games will officially begin, and he has to be there. He'll be arrested again if he misses the festivities.<p>

I sit up on my elbows and peer out the porthole of the boat we live on, since we can't afford our house anymore. We're lucky we still even have the boat, lucky that it was paid off a two years ago before my father started drinking. This boat is the the only thing keeping us alive, really, because I work on this boat to get us money and food. My father does occasionally, when he's sober enough to fish or not suffering from a severe hangover. Which is only occasionally.

The sky is still black, made flat and starless by the thin layer of clouds that will sink to the ground as fog later. The beaming sun will beat away the fog before the reaping starts, but that won't be for another couple hours. It can't be later than three o'clock in the morning. I'm a fisherman, and that combined with my father's night owl tendencies has made me an early riser. But I thought I might get in an extra hour or two of sleep today; it's one of the few benefits of the reaping. I guess I won't get that luxury this year.

I sit up all the way and swing my legs over the side of the bed, planting my feet firmly on the wooden floor and wiggling my toes against the cool surface, feeling the boat rocking back and forth with the motion of the waves. It's a nice thing about living on a boat, always feeling a connection with the sea. It's one of the only nice things, really.

I stretch my arms over my head and yawn. My back cracks. I roll my shoulders and smack my lips, pushing the annoying mat of hair from my eyes. I should probably get it cut before the reaping, but I know I won't. It's shaggy and falls almost to my shoulders in a limp curtain. It bothers me, but not as much as having my neck and face and ears so exposed. I like my shaggy, limp curtain better than vulnerability.

I stand up and shuffle across the room until my foot makes contact with some part of my father's body. It's too dark, so I can't see him very well. I cautiously get on my knees and feel around for the glass so I don't step on it. When I've found the majority of it and tenderly scooped it into a pile, I grab my father's arm and heave him upright, then sling my arm under his armpits to carry his weight. He's knocked out cold. Looks like I'll have to bail him out of jail this year.

I throw him onto his bed and depart from the room, climbing onto the deck of our boat. I know I should probably go back to sleep, but I won't be able to. A tight knot is writhing in my stomach, threatening to riot if I eat anything. So I don't. The reapings always make me nervous, because I'm one of the few in our district who has to sign up for tesserae. The name Finnick Odair is in that glass ball more times than I care to admit.

The cool, humid morning wind hits my face. It's nice. I hope the ocean feels this good.

I sling a towel over the railing and strip off my shirt, grabbing a bar of soap before I jump in feet first. I swim out for a while to get away from the row of docks and ships that constrict the beach, then I wash. Most people get fresh water to bathe in, at least on reaping day, but my father and I can't afford that right now. I figure that as long as I use soap, no one will know the difference. If they did, they probably wouldn't care.

I float on my back for a while, watching as the clouds fall from the sky and become fog, watching as the black canvas above me is painted soft shades of indigo and violet, then finally lavender and light blue. When I drift a little too far from the boat for comfort, I make an effort to swim back. I don't want to go back, but I can already tell that the people are rising and I don't want them to see me in the middle of the ocean with a bar of soap in my hands.

I climb back onto the boat and dry off, ducking back into the cabin to get a change of clothes. Nothing too fancy, just nice pants that are a bit too short and a collared shirt. I sling a tie over my neck, not bothering to put it on right now. I comb my hair and poise the scissors at the tips of my hair, setting them back down after a long moment without cutting it. My father is still dead to the world, even as I scrape up the glass with a broom and dispose of it in the wastebasket. It falls in the bottom with a loud clatter, but my father doesn't notice.

I grab him again and haul him onto the deck, letting him lay there for a second before grabbing a bucket and filling it with seawater. I splash it over his face, and he jerks awake with a gasp. He swears and clutches his head in both hands, squeezing his eyes shut against the morning sun. "You tryin' to kill me?" he finally manages to drawl, pressing his palms into his eyes.

"No, you don't need any help with that," I retort, throwing the bucket on the deck with as much force as I can muster. "Get dressed. The reaping starts at noon."

"Not going."

"You are. If you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out," I threaten, hauling him to his feet and nimbly dodging the spew that erupts from his mouth soon afterwards. He obviously hasn't eaten anything yet, it's all just bile, but it's still disgusting. I wrinkle my nose against the odor of stale liquor that I'm sure will always cling to him.

"I can't go," he moans, pushing me off of him. It's pathetic, how weak he is. "I can't..."

"You can," I say sternly, shoving him into the cabin and shifting through his drawers for his reaping clothes. He shakes his head and collapses back onto the bed, curling up into the blanket. I finally find the clothes and slam the drawer shut, turning around to see him in this ridiculous state. I kick him. He doesn't budge.

I hope he suffocates in the pillows.

"Fine," I hiss through my teeth, tossing the clothes in his direction. "I don't care if you go. I don't care if you get arrested. I'm not bailing you out this time, even if it means I have to live in the orphan house until you're released. I don't care anymore. Just go to hell."

I storm from the cabin and slam the door as hard as I can.

Like I did last year.

* * *

><p>I'm amazed at how much I've grown in the past year. I distinctly remember being at least a head shorter than every other thirteen-year-old boy in District Four. Now I'm as tall or taller than those same boys, all a year older like me.<p>

I don't know any of them. I'm not very popular at my school, to be honest. I'm pretty quiet, I get my work done, I don't brag about how much I can bench press. None of the girls pay me much attention either; I'm the gross, silent boy in the corner of the room that no one wants to talk to. My hair is too long, my clothes smell like fish, and my fingernails are dirty. Overall revolting. I did have my science partner tell me that I have pretty eyes under my cap of hair, but she hasn't talked to me since we finished our project.

It doesn't bother me, though. At least I don't have to worry about what they think, since they've already labeled me as the grubby misfit. If I did make a friend, I'm sure they would leave after meeting my father anyway. It's better not to go through that pain, it's better being alone.

Although, I wish I did have someone here with me now. I know my father didn't bother to peel himself out of bed; even if he did, he wouldn't be much comfort. The reapings are always nerve racking for me, because I don't pay for trainers like a lot of the others do. We don't volunteer like Districts One and Two, but we still like to be prepared for the worst. Hurricanes and Peacekeepers have programmed that into our brains.

Mayor Grubstein makes a speech, the usual drone about how Panem was brought up from the ashes of North America and the Dark Days and District Thirteen and everything else we hear every year, but for some odd reason the Capitol feels inclined to remind us of. The bright Capitol woman, Augustina I think her name is, trots onto the stage in her high heels and thrusts her hand into the girls' glass ball with a shrill, "Ladies first!"

All of District Four is holding their breath when she reads, "Muriel Cordelia!"

A girl from the seventeen-year-old's group steps up, confident and only a little bit pale. I can immediately tell that she is one of those popular people who talk about how far they can throw a spear. She's radiant and beautiful, with a shining river of smooth raven hair and the palest green eyes I've ever seen. She's rich, I can tell by her attire. If she survives long enough, she won't have any trouble getting sponsors.

Augustina totters on over to the boys' pool, and my stomach clenches. I've lost count of how many times my name is in that glass ball. She won't pick me, right? She never picks me.

"Finnick Odair!"

She picked me.

I have to elbow my way through the crowd, because no one knows who Finnick Odair is. That statement echoes in my head. She picked me, she picked me, she picked me. I can feel myself shutting down, like I do when my father yells at me or screams into the night until the Peacekeepers knock him out and detain him. I'm shutting down, going blank. I am numb, expressionless, and I'm satisfied to see I look like that on camera too. Utterly indifferent.

I'm not sure how long it will last, but when I shake Muriel's hand I don't notice how hard I'm squeezing until she wrenches it out of her grasp and rubs her fingers with a scowl in my direction.

The Peacekeepers take me offstage and into the Justice Building, where I am to sit in a room and wait for my loved ones to come. I can already see a line forming at Muriel's room across the hall. They shove me into my own room and I sit down on the plush couch, waiting, emotionless, for someone to say goodbye, for someone to say they'd care if I died. For someone to beg me to survive and return, and that they'd be waiting for me when I did.

No one comes.

* * *

><p><strong>Before I say anything, I DON'T own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.<strong>

**I'm sorry to say that Annie won't be coming in until the later chapters, Part Two. Mainly because I think that it's very unlikely that they would have been bestest buddies before the Games, and they were both picked just out of coincidence. It just seems like a long shot to me. **

**This is kind of a prequel, a paraquel, and a sequel to my first story, _Sea Glass (Annie's Games)_. This story is going to be SUPER long (like, novel long) because it has three parts; one for each of the Games. I would make it a trilogy, but...well, then you'd have to keep up with all three of them and since I already have _Sea Glass_ I figured I might as well just keep it all wrapped up in one shiny story.**

**Finnick is kind of a misfit in this chapter, but that will change with time. He'll change a lot in the story, trust me.**


	2. The Train: Motive

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **T**rain - **M**otive

* * *

><p>Eventually, we're put on the train. Muriel's face is red and blotchy; she's been crying. I'm not sure if they're sincere tears, or if she's faking it for the cameras. I don't see what false tears are going to do for her, though; she's already beautiful and strong. There's no way the rest of us tributes are going to take her for a weakling. Maybe she's trying to get the Capitol's sympathy. Who knows?<p>

I'm still numb.

I wonder if my father even knows that I was reaped. Is he still laying in bed, his face squished into the blanket? Is he sitting in jail, waiting for me to bail him out? Did he actually make it to the reaping, but decide he didn't want to see me? Did he choke on his own vomit? A thousand scenarios run through my mind, but none of them instigate worry or anger or sorrow from me. I don't feel a thing for my father. I don't think I have for a while.

We'll get to the Capitol late in the night, but I'm really tired already. As soon as a mute person escorts me to my room, I flop down on the bed and snooze away until Augustina calls me down for dinner.

The table is utterly silent when I sit. My stomach growls in response to the abundance of food laid out in front of me, and I shovel it into my mouth. Augustina and Muriel are both shooting me looks of disgust, but I don't care. I'm used to it by now. Besides, I'm disappointed to find that the legendary Capitol food tastes like sawdust in my mouth, no matter how good it looks.

Muriel and Augustina hit it off great, but the other two people at the table, our mentors, are nearly as silent as I am. The quietest is Mags Atlias, an old lady who probably doesn't even have five teeth in her mouth. Her muted green eyes are wise and kind, so I make a mental note to speak with her later and see if she's bearable.

Nath Rutsea, our other mentor, I don't like much. I don't remember his Games well, but I think he was one of the Career pack winners. Muriel seems to be the focus of his attention, and his gray-green eyes scan her body with an accuracy that's disturbing. Muriel doesn't seem to mind; if anything, she's encouraging it. Nath's also brash and demanding towards the silent attendants, who I learned are called Avoxes. They don't have tongues. I wonder what the President does with the tongues that he cuts off of the Avoxes, but I don't dare ask.

As we walk to the living compartment to watch a recap of the reapings, Muriel touches my shoulder. "Hey," she says. "I just wanted to say that I'm here for you, if you need someone to talk to." I watch her apprehensively, but she seems sincere enough. I'm actually contemplating on whether or not I should reconsider my opinion of her when she continues. "It must be hard to be reaped at such a young age. I'm sure your parents are worried, Finian."

I'm not sure what I'm most disgusted about: the fact that she didn't even bother to learn my name, or the fact that such a creature is actually touching me. She can tell she's said the wrong thing, because her hand falls off my shoulder and she drifts past me into the room.

The reapings are...interesting. The brutes from One and Two are as beefy and severe as ever, and so is the boy from Ten. I'm surprised to see that I'm pretty impressive myself, towering over the tributes from the lesser districts with my five feet, ten inches in height. The girl from Eight is only twelve, which actually irritates me in the slightest. But the boy from Seven is a midget; he probably wouldn't even come up to my elbow. The girl and boy from Three look deadly in an intelligent, cunning sort of way. They are obviously close though, because when the girl from Three bursts into tears as she is heading offstage, the boy takes her hand.

The television flicks off, but no one says a word.

"That...was awful," Muriel whispers, breaking the silence prematurely. She's looking at her hands, and then she looks at me. Her eyes are almost drained of color, only the slightest green tinge remaining. They remind me of fish, for some reason. She tries to take my hand in hers, but I shove them in my pockets before she can get the chance. She erupts into tears and is instead comforted by Nath.

I turn away from them to find Mags staring at me. Her eyes do not remind me of fish. They remind me of lily pads, for who knows what reason. They are warm and gentle and I very much want to hug her. I want her to comfort me, but not like Nath is comforting Muriel. I don't to hear that everything is okay, because it's not. I don't want anyone to stroke my back and tell me to let it all out, because then I'll start screaming and throwing things. I just want someone to hug me. I just want a hug. I don't think I've ever been hugged.

Mags doesn't give me a hug. She does me one better.

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

* * *

><p>I lay down in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling. I'm trying to ignore the thumping and stifled moaning coming from the compartment next to mine. It's Muriel's compartment.<p>

After several hours of unsuccessfully trying to block out the noises and get some rest, I roll out of bed and decide to travel the train. It's not very big, so it's not long before I run in to Mags. She's sitting by the window, watching the landscape roll by. We're pretty close to the Capitol; I can see the lights of the city in the distance, shining like a beacon.

I carefully sit across from her, and she turns from the window to look at me. Her dark gray hair gleams silver in the moonlight streaming in. Before I can say anything, she reaches over and brushes my hair out of my eyes. She leans back and purses her lips, looking at me. "You're not going to be able to keep that," she says, gesturing to my hair. "It's too long. The stylist will cut it all off."

I shrug. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Does it?" Mags observes me silently, and sighs when I don't answer. "I know you don't trust me. You don't trust Nath either. But you need to trust us, at least a little. We need to work together to keep you alive."

"Don't bother," I tell her. "Just focus on Muriel. Someone would actually care if she died, and she's beautiful and strong. You might think I'm trying to be melodramatic or something, but I'm not. No one will care if I die. It doesn't bother me, either."

Mags narrows her eyes. "So you're giving up? Going down without a fight?"

"Yes. I'm only fourteen, and I haven't trained. I'm not good-looking, and I'm not a nice person. I'm kind of funny, I guess, but how far is that going to get me? My father's an alcoholic, and I don't know who my mother is. I don't have a cent to my name. Tell me, does that sound like someone who can actually win the Hunger Games?"

Mags smiles and points to herself. "I had just turned sixteen when I won, and I was two times smaller than you. I wasn't beautiful, I lived in the orphan house, and my only possession was a locket my older sister gave me before she drowned. I won, didn't I? I didn't do it honestly, and I didn't do it without blood, but I wanted to show the world that someone like me, that someone like _us_, could win. It didn't matter that no one cared that I came back. I continued living."

"What makes you think I want to continue living?"

Mags laughs and stands up, gazing down at me with sad eyes. "You said no one will care _if_ you died. If you died, not when. Face it, Finnick, you haven't given up yet. And I'm not going to give up until you do." She ruffles my hair, which I find annoying, and leaves me alone beside the window.

I watch her shuffle out of the room, caught somewhere between awe and agitation. I don't like that she's analyzing me, but I like that she feels obligated to do so. It's a nice feeling, knowing someone actually cares enough to pay you some attention. Warm. She was like me, too, young and scared and with no one to love.

I think Mags would miss me, if I died.

Maybe just a little. She probably wouldn't dwell over it for very long, but she still might be a bit sad at my demise. Maybe. Then again, she has lost tributes before. I'm sure this is nothing new for her, a little pep talk before the Games start. Despite that, I like what she said. _I won, didn't I? I didn't do it honestly, and I didn't do it without blood, but I wanted to show the world that someone like me, that someone like _us_, could win._

Someone like us.

I lean my chin on my fists and stare out the window. It's mile after mile of concrete wall, nothing too terribly interesting. But I guess it's better than laying in bed and trying to block out Muriel and Nath bumping around next door. Mags is lucky she's two compartments down from Muriel's room.

The next thing I know, the train is shooting out of the tunnel and into the bright lights of the Capitol, like a bullet from a gun.

* * *

><p><strong>Another chapter! Yay! And thank you, all those who reviewed. :)<strong>

**You get a little more insight into Mags in this chapter, and I'll build her character more as we go along. Mags will talk more too, since she's ten years younger in this story. **


	3. The Capitol: The Opening Ceremonies

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**he **O**pening **C**erimonies

* * *

><p><em>Snip. <em>

_Snip, snip._

I take a deep breath as the Capitol woman hacks away at my hair with a pair of scissors. I thought I had been prepared for it, but without the familiar weight of it on my neck and the shade of it on my forehead, I feel naked and exposed. I feel naked and exposed anyway, considering I'm wearing nothing but a thin robe.

When I was delivered to my prep team, I didn't think they would be too excited about receiving someone so rough. Along with my mop of hair, I have coarse fisherman's skin and freckles from the sun and I have bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. But surprisingly enough, they pounced on me like a pack of wolves, saying that they considered me a challenge and that they would have me looking like a model in no time. They assured me they'd seen worse, which I highly doubted.

However, as they scrubbed and polished me, I've slowly come to the realization that I'm not all that ugly. Cybele gushes over my muscle tone and my District Four tan. Having a natural tan must be an amazing concept for her, though I'm far from the horrific shade of orange she's dyed her skin. Aurora says she could get lost in my eyes, their color is so spectacular. Faustus tsks over my hair, but he remarks that it's a good color and that they won't have to dye it. For which I'm thankful, because his hair is electric blue and sticks up in every direction.

As Aurora's slender fingers gently shift through my hair, I find myself dozing off. It's kind of nice, having her in particular cut it, because she looks almost normal. The only aberration I can see is a row of diamonds implanted into the skin under her right eye. But her hair is a soft brown, her eyes are the color of caramel, and her skin is peachy. She doesn't have cat claws or whiskers, and she isn't suffering from the stretched-out look of too much plastic surgery. It's nice, to have someone almost normal to get me through this day.

There is one final _snip_, and Aurora stops. I blink multiple times when she turns me around in my chair, trying to keep myself awake. I hear her and Faustus gasp. I glance up sharply in time to see Cybele faint. The other two are too preoccupied with staring at me to catch her, so she tumbles to the floor with a thump, her long red hair fanning around her like blood.

"What?" I say. "What did you do?"

"Oh, Finnick," Aurora breaths, placing a hand over her heart. I wheel around in my chair, expecting the worst. But the person who stares back at me in the mirror with an urgent expression is not Finnick Odair. Not grubby, slumped, silent Finnick Odair, who no one wanted to be associated with at school. Not the Finnick Odair who lived on a rugged boat with his alcoholic father. This is a teenage celebrity, the kind of person the Capitolites praise. His face, while still retaining the slightest bit of adolescent fullness, is handsome and debonair, probably capable of melting every heart in Panem. His muscles are rippling under the thin robe he wears, but they aren't grotesquely large. They are lean and slim, a swimmer's and a fisherman's muscles. His shiny bronze hair is just long enough to cover the tips of his ears, and it's as soft and fine as silk threads. But the most incredible thing this boy has are his eyes. His eyes are the exact color of the ocean, framed by long black lashes. His eyes widen as mine do, and he blinks when I do. When I lift up my hand to touch my face, to tousle my hair, so does this creature in the mirror.

This is not me.

This _can't _be me.

"Oh my..." Faustus says in his funny Capitol accent. He reaches out towards me, then drops his hand. "I believe...I believe we've created a masterpiece. You're utter perfection. You..."

I don't hear what he says. I'm not even sure if he finishes speaking. We are all at a loss for words. I was asleep for most of what they did, so I didn't notice how they scrubbed away the salty layer of brine that I can never seem to wash off. I didn't notice how my nails are no longer irregularly shaped and dirty. I didn't notice them polish my scars away with makeup. I did notice when they started cutting my hair, but I didn't realize that it would be such a drastic change. I am a completely different person now, at least on the outside.

I give myself a triumphant smirk in the mirror, and I hear Aurora's breath catch. Yes, this is exactly the boost I needed. The 65th Hunger Games are going to be the start of a new life for me, a new Finnick Odair that won't have to live on a grimy boat with his disaster of a father. A new Finnick Odair who will be adored by everyone but who no one will really know. I will be a slap in the face for all of District Four. I was the poor little boy you never cared about; well look at me now! The one you ignored, the one you left without a friend, is me! I am the pathetic bud that has blossomed into a flower, a lowly caterpillar evolved into a butterfly. The 65th Hunger Games will _make_ me, and all I have to do is survive.

_I wanted to show them that someone like me, that someone like _us_, could win_.

While Faustus carries Cybele to the couch and fans her, Aurora goes to retrieve my stylist. He is a man by the name of Taurus, and as soon as he walks in I can tell that he will be an awful stylist. He is more surgically altered than anyone I have seen in the Capitol so far, even blue-haired, pink-eyed, puffy-lipped Faustus. Taurus is covered from head to toe in vibrant tattoos, swirling patterns and designs in every color known to man. His skin looks like it was peeled off, rolled out, and stretched over his face again. He has a silver ring hanging from his nostrils, like the bull for which he is named. He is completely bald, the quilt of his tattoos spanning across his scalp. He doesn't even have eyebrows.

"You must be Mr. Odair," Taurus says. His Capitol accent is so pronounced I can hardly understand him. I blink partially because of this, and partially because I have never been addressed as Mr. Odair before. As he is appraising me, the place where is eyebrow should be crinkles, as if he is quirking it. "I have to say, this is quite an improvement from before. Great job, Aurora. You will make an excellent stylist next year."

Aurora beams. She had been telling me something about how she was in her final stages of training for being a stylist, but I was too exhausted to really listen to her. I can see now that Taurus's compliment means a lot to her. He must not give them out often.

She stays after Cybele and Faustus leave, watching as Taurus places me in my costume for the opening ceremonies. It's a seaweed monstrosity, green and slimy and as skimpy as can be, two elongated leaves crossing over my chest in a suspender-like fashion and hooking onto the tangle of green that assures I'm not entirely naked. There are several miscellaneous items ensnared in the seaweed, everything from fishhooks to sand dollars. I find myself becoming increasingly uncomfortable, realizing that Taurus has no additional clothing for the outfit in mind.

It's even worse than I imagined.

I feel like a leafy green salad, ready to be served with a side of lobster and a buttered roll. Who in their right mind would think this is fashionable? It's horrific and it's going to get me ridiculed in the arena, at home, and by sponsors. I don't know the first thing about fashion, but even I know that this thing is going to get me killed. And fast.

"You're right, Aurora," Taurus says after a moment. "The green really does make his eyes pop."

Please, please be joking.

"I think so," Aurora chirps, positively glowing. Her soft caramel eyes linger over me for too long, and it makes me even more uneasy. She turns and walks towards the door. "I'll go tell the others that we're almost done."

Come on, _please_ be kidding.

"I'm glad I went with her design instead of mine," Taurus says, turning slow circles around me like a shark as Aurora shuts the door behind her.

"_Aurora_ designed this?" I ask. I certainly hope this is not the case, because she was really starting to look intelligent there for a while.

"Yes, she did everything herself. It was something of a competition between the two of us. She is my prized student, you know. You are lucky to have her on your prep team this year." Taurus snaps his fingers, shaking his finger at me. "You probably want to see your reflection, don't you? Come with me to the mirror."

I numbly follow him. The costume's not so bad, at least not on me. With my new-found looks, it would be hard to make anything look bad on me. But it is still an atrocious beast of a garment, and I hope with every fiber of my body that Aurora does not participate in any more of my outfits. I swear, every Capitolite is a complete and utter imbecile one way or another.

Taurus takes me to Nath and Mags. Their eyes widen when they see me, from the costume or my transformation, I can't be sure. Augustina stops mid-sentence to gawk at me. Muriel looks equally astounded. Her costume is similar to mine, except the seaweed-suspenders are carefully placed in order to obscure her breasts. As we're walking to the carriage, she makes sure that she's right beside me, bumping hands and rubbing shoulders. I find this extensively entertaining, so I decide to have a little bit of fun with her. As we get into the carriage, I take her hand in both of mine and rub it as if to warm it. "Your hands are so cold," I say, unleashing the force of my green eyes on her to see what they can do. "You must be nervous. I know I am. But I'm sure we can get through this if we stick together, Murtle."

I don't think she even cares that I purposely got her name wrong. A heavy red blush rises to her cheeks in uneven blotches, and she looks as starry-eyed as can be. I think she might kiss me, but we're pulling up to the ceremony. The horses come to a stop and Nath practically pushes us out of the carriage in a cascade of rustling seaweed. I jerk my hand out of Muriel's and abandon her, walking forward of my own accord and waving endearingly to the citizens of the Capitol. I'm throwing up a little bit in my mouth as I'm doing it, but I manage to retain my self-disgust. When I get up on stage, I turn to see Muriel jogging to keep up with me, fixing a seaweed-suspender that became askew and trying to hide the stain of the ugly red blush on her skin. I can't help but smile to myself. This has worked out perfectly.

The ceremony's stars are the pair from District One, looking fantastic in shimmering sheaths of diamonds. However, despite my vegetational outfit, I still get a lot of attention. Is that really the boy from District Four? The one with the long hair? He looks nothing now like he did then. Aurora was right about one thing; this color green makes my eyes pop. Everyone in Panem is getting lost in my beautiful eyes, two emeralds unearthed from the depths of my bad grooming.

I'm relieved when it's finally over. This outfit is not only ridiculous, but itchy as well. The carriage was right where we left it, and Mags rewards us with a change of clothes when we get in. She really is a miracle worker.

"You guys did good," she says, considerately averting her eyes as we change. "Even though your costumes were a bit of a flop. I still think you've really impressed possible sponsors."

"Yes, maybe," Muriel says. She gives me an icy glare, probably for distracting her and then leaving her at the carriage before the opening ceremonies. I can tell that she isn't going to be so easily fooled anymore. However, when I flash her a grin in response to her scowl, she averts her eyes so as to not let me see them soften.

We get back to our hotel, and I realize just how tired I am. I haven't gotten much sleep these past few days. I want to go immediately to my room and lay down, but Mags and Nath have a different idea.

"I know you're probably tired, but we need to discuss training for tomorrow," Mags says, sitting down and gesturing for me and Muriel to do so. "Nath and I need to know what you can do, so we can use that to our advantage in the training and in the arena. It's okay to admit that you've done some previous training now. There's nothing they can do about it if you have. But I need to know if you want to train together or separately."

"Separately," Muriel and I say simultaneously. It's a dead giveaway that Muriel's going to join the Careers, but I'm still deciding whether I want to or not. And if I decide against it, I don't want her knowing what I can do; even if it's not much.

"Okay then," Mags says, clapping her hands. "I'll train with Muriel and Nath will train with Finnick." No one looks very enthusiastic about this suggestion. Nath and I glance at each other, mutually agreeing to festering hatred with our eyes. Nath openly admits that he would rather train Muriel, and I don't say anything to object. Mags nods and eventually agrees to be my mentor instead of Muriel's. She obviously thinks that Nath and Muriel won't do a lot of training when they're alone, but I think differently. Muriel is serious about winning; she's trying to seduce Nath into playing favorites, so she'll get all the sponsorship money people send in. Nath is using her too, for sex. In the back of my mind I recognize this as some form of prostitution, but I'm not surprised. I'm quite convinced that Muriel will do anything to win these Games. And who can blame her?

Mags dismisses us and Muriel and I go to our rooms. She stops me in the hallway, roughly grabbing my shoulder and shoving me into the wall. She's more enraged than I thought. "I tried to play nice with you, Finnick Odair," she says, jabbing a finger at my chest with each word. I'm satisfied to know that she's actually found out what my name is. "But now that's over. I'm your enemy."

"I'm shaking," I blurt sarcastically.

"You go ahead and laugh," she snarls, wheeling around and marching to her room across the hall. "You think it's funny to make me mad now. But you just wait, Odair. You'll find out too late that I'm not an enemy you want to have."

I stare at her closed door, grinding my teeth. I really should be more careful. I'm not going to get through these Games by making enemies; I have to make people believe that they're my friend. My makeover has given me a boost, but it's not going to do all the work. I'll have to alter my personality, change myself, aim for the kill instead of charging headlong and hoping for the best. I don't know exactly when I decided I want to win, or even why I want to win, but I do know one thing. I am going to be the next Hunger Games victor.

And nothing is going to get in my way.

* * *

><p><strong>So Finnick is a supastar now, and he's actually considering putting up a fight! How awesome is that?<strong>

**Muriel is a bit underdeveloped, and so is Nath and Augustina. I'll try and fix that in the next chapters. You'll learn a lot more about Mags, though, so that makes up for it. :) **

**The costumes are horrid, I know. But in every story I've written about the Hunger Games and in the actual book, the stylists were all great. I wondered what it would be like to have an awful stylist, and thus Taurus and Aurora were born. Aurora will pop up more later.**


	4. The Capitol: Training

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**raining

* * *

><p>I wake up before anyone else, though every muscle in my body tells me it's the wrong thing to do. But I've got to get this right today. I have to earn everyone's favor if I'm going to tiptoe my way to survival. It will be delicate and fragile, but it needs to be done if I'm going to win this thing with as little trouble as possible. I'll have to train myself to be chivalrous and kind, open and caring, flirtatious and frivolous, even towards the most irritating of specimens. Augustina, Muriel, and Nath are all in that category.<p>

So I get up ridiculously early. I relish the shower and all the soaps and scrubs that Aurora has instructed me to use for maximum hair and skin lusciousness. I tediously shift through my clothing options, choosing tailored, stylish fashions instead of the dingy, loose garments I'm accustomed to. I actually brush my hair, a task I never would have bothered with when I was the old Finnick. I stand in the mirror for a full hour, taking myself in, practicing expressions, and attempting to correct my awkward posture. I feel silly while doing so, but it's necessary. I think.

When I hear Augustina's heels clacking down the hall, I open the door in a grand sweeping gesture and give her a sunny salutation. She seems surprised, her stenciled-on eyebrows shooting up and wrinkling her glittery skin. "Finnick! You're up awfully early," she says.

"Yes, I know," I reply with a brilliant grin. "I always get up this early so I can enjoy the morning before the work day starts. I just love watching the sun rise, don't you? It's so beautiful on the ocean."

Augustina blinks, gaping at me. I'm thinking I've laid it on a little thick when she brushes her hair over her shoulder and giggles girlishly. "Oh, it sounds absolutely wonderful. I hear that District Four is one of the prettier ones."

"It's gorgeous there," I say, probably the only honest thing I've uttered all morning. "But certainly not as incredible as the Capitol. The scenery here positively blows my mind."

"It is quite amazing, isn't it?" Augustina sniffs proudly, smoothing down her skirt.

"So, what are you doing in this hallway? This is only for tributes, right?"

"Yes!" Augustina says, snapping her fingers as if she is remembering something. "Yes, I came to call the rest of you down for breakfast. Training starts today, and we want to get there early."

"You're so thoughtful," I compliment. "You must be a busy woman, with having to manage all of us. Why don't I wake everyone up for you so you can eat the breakfast you deserve? It would be my pleasure."

"Oh! Finnick, that's so sweet!" She reaches over and pinches my cheek, to which I grit my teeth and grin until my face muscles hurt. "I was completely wrong about you!"

Augustina sashays away after that, thankfully, because I'm afraid I would have strangled her otherwise. But at least I've buttered her up enough that she won't focus all her attention on Muriel. And she was good practice for when I'll actually need my charming skills: the arena. Certainly no one there will be as stupid as her, but they won't be nearly as annoying either.

I walk across the hallway to Muriel's room, taking a deep breath and putting on a smile before knocking on the door. _You can do this, you can do this_, I chant in my head. Muriel opens the door and immediately glares, her pale green eyes hardening at the sight of me. "What do you want?"

"I've come to take you down to breakfast and to formally apologize for my behavior yesterday," I say, looking down at my feet and trying to sound as ashamed as possible. "It was wrong of me to treat you that way at the opening ceremonies. You're older and wiser and stronger, and I should give you the respect you deserve." I peer up at her, unleashing my eyes. "Will you _please_ forgive me, Muriel?"

"No," she declares immediately, crossing her arms over her chest. "I won't. Just because we're from the same district doesn't mean we have to be friends or partners. And I won't get a bad rep if I kill you either, because nobody cares about you. I tried to be nice, but you obviously didn't take advantage of my cordiality soon enough. You're worthless to me now, Odair, just like you are to everybody else."

With that she slams the door in my face, leaving me stunned and a little bit hurt._ I won't get a bad rep if I kill you. Nobody cares about you. You're worthless to me now, just like you are to everybody else_. These words have cut open old wounds, not entirely healed yet.

Taking a shaky breath, and turn on my heel and march towards Nath's room. No one said that this was going to be easy. It's going to take time for me to earn Muriel's favor again.

I stop at Nath's door and slump. This is going to be impossible; Nath and I have already decided that we hate each other. I'm certainly not a sight he wants to wake up to in the morning, no matter how well-dressed I am. So I knock on his door and head down the hall to retrieve Mags, assuming that he'll get the message.

When I knock on our other mentor's door, she opens it immediately, completing the long silver braid slithering over her shoulder. She smiles at me and ties a rubber band around the end. "Hi there, Finnick," she says, clapping her hands together. "Come to escort me down to breakfast? You didn't have to get all dressed up, you know, your normal clothes would've been fine."

I can't help but grin. "I thought I'd impress you with my new look. I'm going for Capitol-chic."

Mags rolls her eyes. "You need to dye your hair then. I think pink would be a nice color on you."

"Only real men wear pink," I say in mock seriousness.

"There's a rumor that Caesar is going to be pink this year," Mags adds thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "I think he'll look rather like a pimple, don't you?"

I don't answer, because we arrive at the dining area. Muriel shoots daggers at me as soon as I enter. Nath is not here, so I guess he didn't bother to get up. Oh well, it's not like he's going to accompany us to the training room anyway.

"Hey, Mags," I say, frowning as I pick at my scrambled eggs. "What are we supposed to do at training?"

"Train, obviously," Muriel snorts.

Mags ignores her. "It depends on what your strategy is. My suggestion is that if you're going to join the Careers, start by practicing what you're best at and grab their attention. Then try and learn as much as you can from them. If you don't want to join the Careers, just keep your head down and learn as much as you can from the stations."

Do I want to join the Careers? That's the first question that runs through my head. Muriel will be in the Career pack, so if I don't join I'll be a major target if she keeps hating me the way she does. But if I do join...the things the Careers have done in the arena are chilling. Do I want to end up that way? Do I want to lose my humanity?

Then again, it is the Hunger Games; what exactly is humane about it?

I want to win. I want it more than anything I've ever wanted. Not just for the sole sake of survival, but because I want to start over with my life. I want friends, and I want a real house to live in. I want to show my father and my mother, whoever she is, that they are wrong about me; I want to show everyone that they're wrong about me. I am not that invisible little boy anymore. I am Finnick Odair, and you will know my name. Everyone will know my name.

It comes to me now, clear as a bell. In order to win, in order to be reborn, I will have to join the Careers. No, I'll have to _be_ a Career. It's not enough to just act like them. I have to think like them, become one of them.

But first, I have to prove myself to them.

* * *

><p>Muriel doesn't talk to me as we walk down to the training room. She looks straight ahead, completely ignoring my presence. I suppose this is a step up from yesterday, when she was threatening me.<p>

The tributes from One, Two, and Eight are already in the training room when we arrive. Muriel automatically walks over to the four who make up the Career pack. They appraise her silently as she comes over, and they seem warm enough when she introduces herself. After she throws a spear into a mannequin, they accept her with open arms.

I dwindle along the sidelines, waiting for the others to show. Getting into the Career pack is crucial, but Muriel and my age are going to be huge obstacles. I'm easily the youngest here, with the exception of the twelve-year-old girl from Eight. Muriel isn't going to want them to accept me, and I can't go up to them like a small child trying to fit in with the older kids. I have to pretend like I don't want in and make them come to me.

But the question is this: how?

I close my eyes and clear my head. I'm not skilled with any weapons because of training, but there has to be something I used on the boat that is impressive. Anything, anything at all.

Then in comes to me.

I fish with a trident.

It's the perfect weapon for me to impress the Careers, the Gamemakers, and to use in the arena. Back home, I could catch enough fish with a simple trident and net to feed six or seven hungry people. I probably made enough money to buy food and fresh water and adequate clothing for my father and me, but he spent all of it on his alcohol and his prostitutes. A new pang of irritation erupts in my chest. Maybe if my father had been more focused on living the right way, we would have hand money to spend on things like training and I would have a better shot at winning. But it's too late now; it doesn't matter.

I know what I'm doing. I've watched cliques at my school for years. I probably know more about them than the people who actually participate in the groups, which are really nothing more than an intricate network of connections. If you don't act right, then you're not part of the clique. You can belong to multiple cliques. There are also those who weave in and out of cliques, not quite belonging to any. They are outsiders like me, in disguise. Yes despite this, they are desirable.

That's what I need to be. Desirable.

The trident is sleek and familiar in my hands. I feel at home with it, on my boat, preparing to pull back and lunge and strike a sea creature. Except I'm not striking a sea creature. I'm killing a human being.

With this train of thought my step falters, and I miss the mannequin entirely. I scowl vehemently before I even think about it, about the smooth persona I'm trying to pass off. Finnick Odair doesn't get angry. He's as cool as ice.

I take a deep breath and clear my head of thoughts. It's no time for my damn morals to kick in. I'm a Career, and we don't have morals. I'm Finnick Odair. Does Finnick Odair have morals?

No, not if he's a Career.

I pick up the trident and walk back to the mannequin. This time I'm poised, balanced. Completely calm, like the flat surface of a lake. This time I embrace the fact that the mannequin is human shaped; I'm killing an opponent, one more person who's in my way. That's all they are. Obsticles for me to hurdle, people who are in my way.

The trident sinks deep into the chest of the mannequin.

I've got their attention. I can feel their eyes on my back. Paying them no mind, I grab my trident and try again, flashing defenses and attacks and even using a net to trap my fake enemy. I don't stop training with the trident, displaying my skills until I'm sweaty and panting and the muscles in my appendages are throbbing with the effort. I can't stop until they come over here.

Finally, they do. It's the girl from Two. Her name is Julianne. She's not very threatening; she has a willowy body type and an open face, almost kind. Her hair is a sandy blonde, and she has big, soft brown eyes. I'm actually kind of nervous when I talk to her. She's very, very pretty.

"Come on, I'll introduce you to my friends," she says after a bit of small talk. "I know you've met Muriel already, but no one else has had the chance to talk to you yet. It's weird, most kids stay with their district partners."

"I get the feeling that Muriel doesn't like me very much," I say with a sigh, as if I regret it. Which I do, to an extent. If Muriel liked me, I wouldn't have had to go through all this trouble.

"I don't think she does either," Julianne says honestly, shrugging. "But no one really likes her, except Jayce. He's my partner, over there." She points out the brawniest of the group, his black hair shaved nearly to the scalp and his dark eyes glistening maliciously. I glance back at Julianne, who is so soft and radiant. How are they even from the same district?

"I have no problem with Muriel," I say, attempting neutrality. Maybe if she hears that I've been saying good things about her, she'll warm up to me again. "I think she's just trying to look tough like the rest of you."

Julianne laughs. "Right, that's what it is."

The other Careers are more weary of me. Julianne was obviously the one who made the deciding vote; she probably convinced Jayce, who is obviously the leader of the group, to let me join. I can tell he doesn't care for me yet. He probably thinks I'm some scrawny kid who doesn't know a thing. I'll have to fix that.

The boy from One doesn't seem to like me either. His name is Luster. But I think his dislike has little to do with me, and more to do with the fact that all the Career girls are looking at me funny. I realize that this is what it's like to be admired by girls. I'm a bit taken back, because it's honestly never happened to me before.

Bright, the girl from District One, and Julianne make sure that I get a very warm welcome. They praise my skill with a trident, and teach me how to throw a spear. They sandwich me between them at lunch, plucking stuff off my tray and urging me to try food from theirs. At one point Bright even feeds me a grape, which causes Luster to scowl at us murderously.

When we get back to training, I eventually earn his favor by nudging Bright in his direction every time she asks for help with something. "I don't know how to fight with a knife very well, but I think Luster does" or "I didn't practice that move, but it looks like Luster's got it covered. Maybe you should go ask him?" Bright stops coming to me after a while, and she just practices with Luster. I give him a thumbs up, and I know by the playful roll of his eyes that he is secretly pleased with me handing her off.

Jayce is a different story entirely. Unlike the superficial couple from District One, he's not concerned with trivial things like relationships. He pays no attention to Muriel, who is flirting with him nonstop, or Julianne, who is his district partner and easily the most attractive female tribute. I'm not even sure he realizes that they are the opposite sex. The only time he even speaks to them is to comment on their fighting ability. He's gruff and blunt, and waves off any attempt at politeness.

"We don't have time for things like manners," he says. "We're a team, and we need to function like one. We don't need fluffy cushioning."

He calls Luster a pretty boy and tells him that he's too easily distracted by girls. He tells Muriel to stop flirting with him and instead work on her defensive skills, which are inadequate for his team. He chides me every time I mess up with a weapon, most of which I've never held in my hands before. He seems pleased enough with Julianne, who suddenly transformed from a gentle girl to a deadly machine when training began, but he still critiques her on her technique. And none of us have any room to argue, because he always seems to be right.

I pull back on the string of a bow, Bright tenderly guiding my arms and hands to the right places. Her breath is unpleasantly hot on my neck, and I wish she would stop pressing her body into my back. It's really distracting me, because I am only human and a fourteen-year-old boy at that, but I can't afford to be distracted. I need to learn as much as I can today.

Bright is suddenly shoved away from me. I turn to see Jayce looking at her with disgust. "If you're going to teach someone to use a weapon, at least know how to use it yourself. You're doing it all wrong," he says, giving her his usual scowl. Bright sneers at him and flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, wheeling around and walking towards Luster.

Jayce turns towards me. "And you," he says, jabbing a finger at my chest. "I don't need any little punks like you on my team, especially if you're just going to distract the girls. As far as I can see, you don't know how to do anything except swing a shiny trident around."

I'm torn between making a stand and being compliant. Obedience is more likely the way to earn his acceptance, but even then I'll still be seen as Luster is: a pretty boy worth close to nothing. I'm younger too, and Luster is the best at using knives, even better than Jayce. Am I better at something than Jayce? Swinging a shiny trident around, probably, but that's it.

I know it's stupid and it's not going to score me any points with him, but I can't take his constant threats anymore. I can't afford to get angry either. I have to bait him and let him start it.

"You know, I really don't recall this ever being _your_ team," I say, cocking an eyebrow at him coolly. I pull the bow and arrow into position, desperately hoping that I have the right stance. I look at the target, concentrating on it with all my might. "Being bossy doesn't automatically make you captain."

Jayce doesn't react the way I expect him to. He doesn't yell or become overwhelmed with rage, like I often see the Careers do. He smirks at me, his eyes glittering.

"No, but being better does," he remarks, adjusting the angle of my elbow and tapping me in the abdomen to get me to straighten up. I let the arrow go, and it barely makes the target. But that's a huge improvement to earlier, when Bright was helping me and my arrows littered the floor.

I turn back to him, but he's walking towards Julianne. He speaks to her briefly, and they both discreetly glance at me when they think I'm not paying attention. But I am, and I see the look on their faces. I'm shocked by what I see there, yet a triumphant smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. It's decided.

I've been accepted into the Career pack.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the delay of this chapter. But it's here, and I hope you enjoyed it.<strong>

**Finnick is sort of confused about himself at this point. He's beginning to lose his grip on who he was before, but that's not bothering him since he's decided to change himself. However, he's not entirely sure who he is now. Is he bloodthirsty and merciless, or flirtatious and cool? This is a fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair stumbling towards a victory brimming with deception and lies, with only an old woman and an alcoholic to guide him. **

**Mags obviously doesn't know the entirety of his plan, which consists of him basically losing every shred of humanity he has, and is saying things that Finnick is completely misinterpreting.**

**While most of this chapter is admittedly filler, Finnick's acceptance into the Career pack is crucial to the story, as is relations with all of the Careers. Being only fourteen, there is no possibility of him leading it, but that doesn't mean he can't misguide everyone into trusting him. This is how I think he won.**

**Tell me whatcha think. ;)**


	5. The Capitol: Scores

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **S**cores

* * *

><p>Sleep eludes me. An entire day of training maliciously under Jayce's supervision, and I am buzzing with energy. It figures that I wouldn't be able to sleep the night before we get our scores.<p>

I've decided that I need to get a high score, since I'm already a Career. I'm not sure if watching me skewer a mannequin with a trident is going to impress the judges too much, but I can't think of anything else I can do. I'm okay at using other weapons, but the trident is by far my favorite. It's not really even a weapon; it's an extension of my arm, a savage appendage that can kill with one precise strike.

I roll over on my side, then get out of bed. Laying here isn't going to work. I need to walk around. I pace for a bit, but the room is too small to burn any energy. So I slip out into the hallway and go exploring.

It doesn't take me long to find Mags. She must be an insomniac or something, because it seems like I run into her every time I decide I can't sleep. Does she get nightmares? I know Nath does, because I heard him wake up screaming once. I don't like to think about the nightmares I will suffer if I win.

"Mags?" She jumps when I say her name, but then she nods. I can see in the dark that her pupils are dilated, with fear or the lack of light, I can't be sure. Maybe a little bit of both. "What are you doing up so late? Aren't old ladies suppose to sleep like rocks?"

That gets a grin out of her. "I don't know, you tell me."

I chuckle, and stand beside her. She's looking out the window at the moon again. I remember her doing that the last time, on the train. I wonder what's with her and a full moon. I don't dare ask.

"Finnick, I've been meaning to ask you something," she says, shattering the eerie silence that had settled on us. "Do you have a district token? I haven't seen you wearing one."

"No." I don't elaborate.

Mags sighs, and nods like she understands. She reaches behind her neck and pushes her long silver hair over her shoulder, unclasping something underneath. She takes my hand and deposits a necklace there, a round, slightly rusted, silver locket with a delicate gold chain. I open it, but there is only an engraving of a sea shell inside.

"It was my sister's," she says. "She drowned the year before I won. That was my district token. I think it kept me alive in the arena, remembering what had happened to her. It helped me remember who I am. Maybe it will help you too." She looks at me, and I know she doesn't want me with the Careers. She probably didn't expect me to join them in the first place. But I believe it is the only way I will win.

"What was her name?" I ask, quickly changing the subject before it takes a wrong turn. Mags is my only ally at this point, and I don't want her hating me too. "Your sister."

"Candra," Mags says a little wistfully, looking back up at the moon. It's steady glow bathes her in silver light, giving her a black-and-white quality. She looks ethereal. Serene.

"That's a beautiful name," I say, looking down at the locket.

"She was beautiful."

I rub my thumb across the smooth surface. "Mags?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have any regrets?"

Mags stares at me, long and hard. She looks one hundred years old.

"More than I can count," she finally says. "There's something you have to understand about winning the Hunger Games, Finnick. You will lose yourself in the arena, and you will struggle to find yourself again when you come back. Some victors succeed, and others don't. But none of us are the same afterward."

"Did you ever find yourself again, Mags?"

She taps her chin thoughtfully. "I found a new me."

"How long did it take?"

"A long time." She gives me a kind smile and takes my hand, folding it around the locket. "Take care of her, Finnick. She is very precious to me."

"I will," I promise, clutching the cold metal in my fist. I turn and go back the way I came, leaving Mags staring out the window at the moon high in the sky.

* * *

><p>Breakfast is tense and uneasy the next morning. Muriel doesn't stop fidgeting, and I am trying to keep hands from shaking. I eventually give up eating and lay them on the table, clenching my fists.<p>

"Calm down," Nath finally snaps, glaring at the both of us. "You'll do fine, okay? Just chill out."

"Sorry," Muriel says, though it's sarcastic and cutting. "We're nervous, and we don't have booze to wash all our troubles away."

Nath snarls at her, standing. "You don't know what you're talking about, so shut up."

"Boo-hoo, you're so misunderstood, is that right? Well, maybe if you focused less on self-pity and more on doing your job, we wouldn't need to be nervous about getting our scores! I learned more from the District Two tributes than I've learned from you, and they're supposed to be my competition!"

Mags holds up a hand, stifling Nath's retort. "Muriel, Nath is right; you don't know anything about his situation and you don't need to be commenting on it. But Nath, she also has a point; you haven't been contributing to their training much, and they have a right to be nervous."

Nath sits down, simmering. Mags continues.

"You two are very good fighters," she says, softening her tone. "If you give it your best shot and show them what you can bring to the table in the arena, you'll get good scores. The only thing scores really guarantee is sponsors which, while they are important, don't make the Game."

Muriel and I nod compliantly. I think she might be warming up to me, since she included me in her tirade, so I hold out my hand under the table. It's mostly just me trying to make nice with her, but there's also a small part of me that needs a hand to hold. It doesn't matter; she flicks my hand away. I resign in stony silence, wishing I could untangle the knot in my stomach.

Augustina ushers us down to the waiting room soon afterward. There are twenty-four chairs. I sit with Muriel on my left side and the girl from District Three on my right. I don't remember her name, but I don't think she would talk to me anyway. She's deep in conversation with her district partner.

A woman with zebra-print skin calls Luster into the room, and it begins. I count down the seconds, preparing to stare at the clock on the wall. But there is no clock. I suppose they might consider it unfair, since if you were paying attention you would know how long each tribute spent with the Gamemakers. So I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

The woman calls Bright in after five minutes and forty-seven seconds. Three minutes and twenty-three seconds later, Jayce is called in. Two minutes and fifty-two seconds after that, Julianne is called in. She gives me a smile before she leaves. I try to return it, but I'm not sure if she catches it. She spends six minutes and eleven seconds inside.

The boy from District Three's name is Mason. The girl squeezes his hand before he goes in. She gets called in four minutes later. Her name is Spring.

I know I'm next. I know I'm next.

Seven minutes and fourteen seconds later, they call my name.

Before I get up, Muriel grabs my hand. I'm startled, but she's looking at me with a steady, firm gaze. "Good luck, Finnick," she says.

I'm not sure if I'm relieved because she's finally accepted me again and she'll be easier to manipulate, or if I'm actually grateful for the encouragement. Either way, I give her a smirk and say, "You too."

Then I step inside.

The Gamemakers are pretty sober, which is good. I can see the food in front of them, and I know that if I don't get their attention pretty quickly they'll be too distracted by it to care what I do. So I grab a trident and I battle a mannequin, using my net and thrusting the weapon and just going and going until I finally have to stop to catch my breath. I don't know how long it's been. I know everyone else's times, but I can't even begin to figure out my own. It could be seconds, it could be hours.

I do one last trick before they dismiss me. I balance the trident on my hand by the handle, an old trick I learned from my neighbor to "impress the ladies". Back then I didn't think anything I did would even remotely get the ladies' attention, much less impress them. Irony is a beautiful thing.

Anyway, the judges seem to like it. One of them even claps and giggles when I am done. Before the Head Gamemaker dismisses me, I couldn't help flashing them a blinding smile and a low, exaggerated bow before sauntering out of the room. I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders, even if I'm scheduled to fight to the death in two days.

I suppose I'll just have to take things a step at a time and enjoy the little things, like I've been doing most of my life.

* * *

><p>"What do you think you got?" Muriel pesters as soon as we sit down to eat dinner.<p>

"I think I did okay, maybe an eight or so," I say. There's no use lying to her about it when the truth is perfectly acceptable. "What about you?"

"A nine," Muriel says resolutely, adding a gruff "maybe," after I give her a look.

Generally we're not supposed to talk about what we did for the judges, but Mags says that if we want to share to go ahead and do it. Muriel already knows I'm good with a trident, and I don't want her to think I'm hiding anything, so I tell my story. Muriel keeps her mouth shut for once, which irritates me.

We all travel to the living area to check out the scores. Augustina is bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting with bated breath. She had said she already has sponsors who are considering us if we get good ones. That makes the ghost of the knot in my stomach return.

Luster, Bright, and Julianne all get nines. Jayce gets a ten. Mason gets an eight, and Spring gets a seven. Muriel and I hold our breath as our scores come on the screen.

My face and name come on, followed by a nine.

My entire body relaxes. A nine. A nine is good. A nine will get me sponsors, and it shows that I'm up there with the Careers. I'm good. I'm safe.

Muriel shrieks with delight when she also gets a nine. I'm glad she does, so she's not annoyed with me for getting a better score. But I wonder what she did to impress the judges. I know there's not any getting it out of her without raising her suspicion though, so I don't ask.

The midget boy from Seven gets a three, and the young girl from Eight gets a five. Everyone else gets a fair enough score, the lowest being the tributes from Twelve who get six and the highest being the boy from Ten who gets an eight.

The television flickers off after flashing the Capitol seal, and we all can't help but grin at each other. Because we've done it, we've got good scores, and we're going to get sponsors.

I'm one step closer to winning these Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Scores! Yay! <strong>

**As you can see, Finnick is very determined to win. Just because he wants to, not for any particular person or reason other than that. It will cause a lot of inner turmoil later in the story. **

**Touching moments between Mags and Finnick are always nice.**


	6. The Capitol: Strength

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **S**trength

* * *

><p>Augustina awakes us particularly early this morning, considering even I am not up. I groggily lope out of bed, fumbling for clothes and splashing water on my face. There will be no public appearances today, so I don't have to try nearly as hard to look presentable.<p>

I shuffle into the dining area to see that Muriel has come to a similar conclusion, wearing simple, comfortable clothes, her hair thrown into a sloppy braid. When I sit down beside her and yawn for an extensive period of time, she passes me a cup of brownish liquid. Coffee, it smells like. Something my father stocked up on, considering his hangovers, but certainly nothing of this smooth quality. I plop in some sugar and take a cautious sip, thankful for the warm caffeine buzzing in my veins.

"I apologize about the hour," Mags says. Even she seems to be a bit rough around the edges this morning. Her wrinkles are harsher on her face, and there are purple bags under her eyes. She leaves her hair down, letting the silver tresses tumble down her shoulders in gentle waves, and I can see how thinned out it is. Mags actually looks like a seventy-year-old woman today.

The thought makes me fiddle with the round locket. I wonder, did she sleep at all last night? Or did she stay awake, silently staring at the moon?

"Whatever," Muriel says with somewhat of an unpleasant attitude. I can tell she's going to be a lovely ray of sunshine this morning. "As long as you don't waste my time."

"She won't," I snap. Muriel narrows her eyes at me, then returns to her eggs. I do the same.

"We most certainly aren't going to waste anyone's time," Mags assures, unfazed by the exchange. "Today we are preparing you for the interviews, which not only allow the Capitol a chance to get to know you, but also ensure that your name gets out to potential sponsors. You each will spend three hours with me and Nath figuring out how you want to portray yourself, while the other will get etiquette lessons from Augustina. Any questions?"

"Yes," I say, lifting a hand. Mags raises her eyebrows at me, urging me to continue. I smirk at her. "When do we start?"

Muriel and I secretly draw straws to see who goes with Augustina first. Contrary to her goody-two-shoes facade, Muriel doesn't exactly favor Augustina's company either. I get the short straw, which doesn't upset me too much, since it's a lose-lose situation for me with Nath in the equation anyway.

We leave the others and travel down the hallway to Augustina's room, where she has set up everything I might need in my etiquette lessons. There is even a table covered with a white cloth and silver wear. I can't imagine we'll be eating at the interview, but I don't bother to question it. The ways of the Capitol will always confound me.

She orders me to change into a suit and tie, which is most likely what I'll be wearing to the interview. I'm glad that the interviews are a tad more toned-down than the opening ceremonies. Otherwise who knows what I'd be wearing?

For the next three hours we practice posture, smiling, waving, speaking, dining, and any other flaw I might reveal when standing on a stage in front of the entirety of Panem. Which, despite my hours of practicing in front of the mirror in the morning, is a lot.

I do my best to keep my temper during the entire thing, and I think I do a fairly decent job. There's only once when I snap at her, and I apologize immediately afterward, spouting a lengthy spiel about how I'm stressed and irritated from the Games. She indignantly sniffs forgiveness, and continues with her work. I just hope all this trouble is worth it, because I'm inwardly writhing with aggravation by the time it's over. Augustina doesn't seem to notice, nor does she seem upset in the least; which is good. I'm getting better at smiling through my teeth.

I'm so relieved about escaping Augustina that I don't even think about bracing myself for Nath. I can tell that he and Muriel have been arguing, though, because Muriel storms from the room with a seething glance at him when we arrive. Augustina hobbles after her, flustered.

I stand alone in the room with Mags and Nath.

"Well," Nath sneers, his face red with yelling, probably, "are you waiting for an invitation?"

I bite back my retort and sit down across from them. Mags touches Nath's arm, looking at him with a stern gaze. "That's enough," she says firmly. "We are supposed to be a team, keeping them alive, and right now we're anything but. We need to work together. That's what teams do."

Nath says no more, but I know we are both thinking the same thing. Not everybody on this team is getting out alive.

Mags changes the subject before the pause becomes uncomfortably long. "Now, the interviews are important. We need to come up with an image for you. Your looks would suggest sexy, but your youth poses a problem there. Pedophilia is illegal in the Capitol, and if we made your angle sexy then it would be a huge risk, one that might not be worth it in the end. But we could still put your looks to good use, if that's what you want to do."

"I think that would be best," I say, nodding. "I'm not particularly clever, and I don't think humor will get me very far. Maybe instead of sexy I could do something like...flirtatious? Carefree?"

Nath shakes his head. "Too weak. How is a flirtatious, carefree person going to win the Hunger Games? It wouldn't be good for sponsors."

"It wouldn't be good for sponsors who know what they're doing," Mags interjects, tapping her chin. "But for the rich Capitol citizens who just hurl money towards their favorite tribute, it wouldn't be a bad idea." She pauses. "Finnick, tell us about your life."

I don't like that. "Why?"

"Because, if we're going to establish an angle we need to know what we're working with. The Capitol wants to know you. We'll tweak here and there, but I don't think that we should create an entire lie."

So I swallow the bile that blocks my throat and tell them about my life. About my drunken father, and our boat, and the work I do, and the mother I don't know. I tell them about my school life, and my absence of friends, and how much of a loser I am. I tell them about swimming in the ocean, and watching the sunrise, and the tide pools, and the palm trees. I tell them everything.

When I'm done, I feel empty. It's like all the words have built up inside of me, but that's all it was. Words. As I'm talking, I realize just how empty my life really is. I have nothing. I am nothing.

All the more reason to win.

"We could definitely get you the sympathy vote," Nath finally says with a snort.

"Useless," Mags says, and I cringe at the word._Useless_. "If you're a Career, then sympathy is going to get you nowhere. But maybe you could use your father and mother's story to your advantage. Allude to the fact that your mother is dead and that your father is sick. Say you want to make them proud. It will get you some sympathy while portraying you as brave and independent."

"So...what's my angle?" I say, frowning.

"The teenage heart-throb," Nath says with a chuckle.

"I do think that's the best," Mags says reluctantly, shrugging. "It may not seem like much, but considering your looks and your life and your astounding ability to fake charisma, I think it's the best way to manipulate the sponsors. You'll have the Capitol eating out of the palm of your hand if you play it right."

So we work on my "heart-throb" angle for the rest of the day. We manufacture a story about my dead mother and my weak, sick father who I've taken care of since I was ten years old, and how I love watching the sunset on the beach while writing love poems in my mother's old journal.

Maybe it doesn't amount to all that, but after Mags does suggest a show an aptitude for poetry I can't stop the exasperated snort that has been threatening to escape for quite some time now.

"This is so stupid!" I say bitterly, shaking my head. "Who cares that I like long, moon-lit walks on the beach? And _poetry_? I _hate_ poetry."

"It doesn't matter whether you hate poetry or not," Nath says, leering. "The point of the interviews is to get the Capitol to like you, and if you have to lie to do it, then oh well."

"That's not my point!" I counter. "I'm never going to be taken seriously in the arena with this kind of attitude!"

Mags puts a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into my seat. I hadn't realized I'd stood up. "Finnick," she begins, blinking at me with those wise green eyes, "Your angle may portray how people think of you when you enter the arena, but when you actually start playing the Games, people's judgments change. Your angle in the interviews and in the arena are two completely different things, and you need to understand that."

"Okay," I say, still simmering. "So if I'm the teenage heart-throb who sings love songs while riding dolphins during the interviews, then who am I in the arena? Because that guy isn't going to get me very far there."

"In the arena you are the boy who works day after day to support himself and a drunken father. You are the boy who has no one to encourage him, but still does what he needs to do. You're the boy who survives." Mags touches the hollow of my throat with her fingertips, where the locket is resting. "Finnick, in the arena, you are going to work the angle you've been working all your life. In the arena, your angle is strong."

* * *

><p>Strong.<p>

I think about that word as I go to sleep. What is strong? Is it what Mags described? When I think strong, I certainly don't think about me. I think about the fisherman on their boats, their muscles bulging as they haul in fish. I think about the blacksmiths scavenging scrap from the sunken ships, their hammers striking the metal with deafening noise.

That's obviously not the kind of strength Mags is talking about. If that were the case, Jayce would probably be the ideal candidate. I don't think she's talking about strength so much as stability. The ability to keep standing under duress.

It strikes me then, what strength really is.

Survival.

The strong survive. The weak parish. That's why Careers dominate the Hunger Games and why District Twelve has so few victors. It's the natural order of things; it's just the way things are.

Mags says I am strong. I don't know if that's true, or if she's lying to make me feel better about the interviews. I don't think she is. Mags may have an optimistic view on things, but she's not going to sugar-coat everything for me. If she thinks I'm strong, then she's going to say that. If she thinks I'm weak, she'll tell me that too. And how good is her judgment?

Well, it's Mags. I believe her when she says I'm strong.

The real question is this: am I stronger than the other twenty-three tributes?

I guess in two days I'm going to find out.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm really sorry about the length of these chapters...generally my chapters are longer, but I'm having trouble adding bulk without babbling. And since I put quality before quantity, my chapters are becoming progressively shorter. <strong>

**I do like this chapter though. I think the story, which was flopping, is starting to pick itself up again. Once we get to the Games it will get a whole lot better, I promise. :)**

**Unfortunately I'm going on vacation, so I probably won't update for a weak or two, depending on how much computer access I have. I'm really sorry. :( I tried not to leave this chapter cliffy specifically for that reason, but I'm not sure I did a good job.**

**I hope you enjoyed it anyway. **


	7. The Capitol: Interviews

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **I**nterviews

* * *

><p>It seems like my eyes are just closing when Faustus and Cybele burst into my room, Aurora trailing behind them. She gives me an apologetic glance as her colleagues usher me out of bed. I don't see how it is that they're so energetic at this ungodly hour, until the smell of coffee on their breath hits me in the face. It's so strong, I almost gag.<p>

They drag me to the bathroom and immediately get started without permission or objection from me. I fall into a doze a few times while they're working, only to be roused by harsh claws lathering my hair with shampoo or the sharp sting of grit in an exfoliate. It's almost as if they've been ordered to be rough so I stay awake.

As soon as this thought runs through my head, Aurora catches my eye and her lip twitches, just once. I am not amused, and I mentally call her every name I can think of. Which, considering the capacity of sailors in District Four, is many. I'm certain that Faustus's and Cybele's behavior is not Taurus's doing.

When they've finally scrubbed me and rubbed me raw, the bubbly pair leave to go get their stylist. Aurora stays behind, struggling to maintain a straight face as I glare at her from my place on the edge of the bathtub. "You are cruel and unusual," I accuse, squirming as my skin tingles uncomfortably. "We have a name for people like you in District Four. Actually, we have a couple."

"I'm sorry, Finnick," Aurora says sympathetically. "You had to stay awake."

"Coffee. You could've brought me a coffee."

"I'm sorry," she says again, blinking her amber eyes. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

I don't really know what to say to that, but thankfully Cybele and Faustus arrive with Taurus at their heels. My stomach clenches as I eye the bag he carries, wondering what hideous outfit he has planned for me this time. He sets it down on the counter, appraising me with the eye of an artist, while I chant in my head, _Please just be a suit, please just be a suit._

He nods with approval, commenting only that my skin looks a tad red, and unzips the bag.

Thank the seas. It's a normal suit.

Well, that's what I think at least. Aurora's mouth falls open when she sees it. "Where did you get that design? That's my design!"

"I know," Taurus says, handing me the clothing. "I found it in your sketch book. It's a very nice design, worthy of being shown off at the interviews. It fits Mr. Odair's body type to perfection, and it's just understated enough to work with his angle. It's quite the masterpiece. The only thing I did was change the color of the trim from scarlet to this midnight aquamarine color, since it will make Mr. Odair's eyes stand out more."

At closer inspection I do see there is a slim line of the darkest blue-green bordering the collar and the sleeves. I don't see how it makes much of a difference, but I suppose that at the Capitol detail is everything. I don't have a particular eye for it, myself.

"You...you took it out of my sketch book without permission?" Aurora squeaks, blinking. "You looked in my sketch book without permission? Why would you do that?"

Taurus scowls, becoming mildly irritated. "You should be thanking me. I'm allowing your designs to be featured in one of the biggest, no, _the_ biggest event in the Capitol, and you're complaining because I took a peek at your sketches. What's the point of doing them if no one sees? It's idiotic and childish."

"Hey," I say frowning. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"No, it's not," Taurus says, frowning at me. At least I think it's a frown. It's hard to tell. "I'm just saying that if she wants to become a successful stylist she needs to come out of this simple frame of mind she has. It's not an easy business to get into, and I've done her a lot of favors because I think she has talent. But it's also a cannibalistic and aggressive field. You have to push the envelope and push people out of your way. Aurora isn't going to have me to hold her hand forever. She needs to learn to _grow up."_

The bathroom is silent. Aurora looks on the verge of tears, hanging her head and staring at her hands with shame. Cybele and Faustus are shocked into silence. Outbursts like this obviously aren't common. They are frozen in place, unable to come to their colleague's aid, as if moving with send Taurus's quiet venom their way. He hasn't raised his voice once during the entire tirade, but it only seems to make it worse.

I open my mouth to protest, but Aurora beats me to the punch. She nods once and says, "Yes, Father."

It's my turn to be shocked into silence. Father? Taurus is Aurora's father? I foolishly look for some resemblance, but it's futile. Taurus has had too much surgery.

I think of my relationship with my father and compare it. This is something I learned long ago not to do in District Four, because looking at the smiling faces of father greeting son after a long fishing voyage and comparing it to my father's alternating drunken rampages and bother-me-not attitude made me depressed. But this is the Capitol. I'm not in District Four anymore.

What I see here is not what I saw in the smiling faces of the fishermen and his children. In Taurus I see overbearing arrest, a cold eagerness for his child to take over what he's done. Now that I think about it, does Aurora even want to be a stylist? Or did Taurus force her into it after seeing her "talent"?

In Aurora I see a craving to please, a yearning to be adequate. Glowing admiration meets disappointment and results in a heavy cascade of shame and self-disgust. I know that she will do anything to meet her father's standards.

For once, I'm a little glad that my father is the way he is.

"Good," Taurus says. He hands her the garments. "Dress Mr. Odair. I will be taking Cybele and Faustus. Muriel's stylist is suffering a wardrobe malfunction and needs immediate assistance. Do you have everything handled?"

Aurora nods sullenly. Taurus strides out of the room, motioning for Cybele and Faustus to follow. They do, snapping out of their repose and tripping over themselves to catch up with his long gate. The door closes behind them with a firm, if not angry, thud.

Aurora stands and quietly orders me to dress and meet her in the room. I do, struggling with the tie and finally giving up, walking in with it slung around my neck. I freeze when I get to the room, a quick joke about the tie poised on my lips. Aurora is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in her hands, crying.

I'm not sure if I should leave her be or comfort her. I go for the second option, though I have absolutely no experience with it, because the interview is in a mere hour and there's no telling how long she will sit here if I don't do something about it. "Aurora...?" I say, taking a cautious step forward.

"I'm sorry," Aurora says for the third time that day, wiping her eyes.

"Don't apologize for crying," I say, frowning. "I was just wondering if you're okay."

Aurora doesn't seem to hear me. "I'm sorry you had to see all that. I shouldn't have put you and Cybele and Faustus in that uncomfortable situation. I should have just left it alone."

"No, you were completely justified," I counter. "He invaded your privacy. Father or not, he shouldn't dig around in your stuff like that. And he shouldn't have talked to you like that either."

"But he's right," says Aurora defiantly. "I've relied too much on his help. I need to do work on my own now."

"Do you even want to be a stylist, Aurora?" I ask fervently, irritated that she is sticking up for Taurus.

She freezes, her face crumpling in thought. Her bottom lip starts to tremble. "Yes..." she says uncertainly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I think so," she adds. There is a pause as she processes her answer. Then she erupts into sobs, putting her hands over her face. "I don't know!"

I'm mentally cursing myself. If this episode is any indication of my finesse with women, then the whole teenage heart-throb bit isn't going to work. I'm clumsy and bad at it. In the course of two minutes, I've made a distressed girl cry even harder. What should I do now? What do friends do to assuage each other?

I walk over and wrap my arms around her, hugging her to my chest. She's a couple inches shorter than I am, so I have to blink her hair out of my eyes. Aurora goes rigid with shock and her sobs are reduced to hiccups. She unearths her face from her hands, laying them on my chest, and looks up at me with surprise, I suppose. I shoot her a crooked smile, meant to be comforting.

Aurora does nothing but stare at me. It's rather disconcerting.

Then she leans forward, towards me. It doesn't hit me, what she's going to do, until she's too close for me to dodge. She presses her lips to mine, tilting her head to the side and relaxing in my arms. I've never kissed anyone before, so I don't know what to do. I don't really want to kiss Aurora. She's pretty and funny, sure, but I don't have an inkling of affection for her outside of cooperation. She's a Capitol girl, and she's rather vapid. Evidently she's emotional too.

So should I back away? Then I'd hurt her feelings, which I don't want to do. Keep kissing her? I don't really know how to kiss. I've heard people say that when you kiss somebody for the first time you respond to their touch and you just go with it. I guess it's supposed to be programmed into your brain or something. But I don't think I'm responding much to Aurora's kiss; well, I'm _responding_, because I am a fourteen-year-old boy kissing a woman who has to be at least seventeen after all, but I have a feeling that's not what people mean.

I don't have to fret about it for very long. Aurora pulls away with a misty look in her eye, as if waking up from a night of sleep. She ducks her head, giving me a mouthful of strawberry-scented hair, and slides her hands up to my tie, slowly securing it around my neck and methodically doing the knot. She gently tugs it into place and takes my hand, pulling me towards the door without looking at me. "I should probably take you to your mentors," she mumbles, ducking her head behind a curtain of brown hair.

Is she embarrassed? Or ashamed that she's kissed me? Or does she not find my kissing good and doesn't want to give it away and hurt my feelings? I don't know. This whole kissing thing is really just confusing.

Aurora hands me off to Mags and Nath with a blushing, murmured goodbye. She practically flees the premises. Mags curiously asks me what happened as we stare after her retreating form. The best answer I can give her is a shrug. I think Nath has the gist of it, judging by the knowing in his eye; he seems impressed with me by Aurora's behavior. I guess that means I'm a good kisser, even though I didn't do much.

Muriel is the last to arrive, and Augustina is on the verge of hysteria by the time she finally makes it. It's only fifteen minutes to show time. I must say though, Muriel is quite stunning. She wears a pale green dress the color of her eyes, embellished with sparkling beads that catch the light and imitate the glitter of sunshine on the ocean. The skirts gently pull away from her figure and float around her feet, billowing out in every direction. Her dark hair is braided around her head to show off the graceful curve of her neck. Opaque pearls and radiant jade beads wrap around her throat and hang from her ears. The final touch, a gold band with a shimmering flower made with petals of rose quarts and a peridot pistil around her wrist.

Her attire confuses me. I assumed that Muriel's angle would be sexy, but the outfit, while it is flattering, isn't revealing or seductive enough. Muriel smiles, seeing my confusion, but she doesn't say anything.

We make our way to the stage and I feel my jaw drop. The stadium, for there isn't another acceptable name for such a giant place, is brimming with people and decor. There isn't a square inch of the place that isn't polished, engraved, embellished, or otherwise. There isn't a plain, simple space in the room. It makes me feel strangely primal, but I wish that there was. All the decoration is craving attention and I can't focus on just one thing. It's disorienting.

I take my place behind Muriel and beside the girl from Five. She's around my age, and she reminds me of a carrot with her long orange hair and narrow, freckled face. She would be fairly pretty if not for the two teeth slightly protruding over her bottom lip. She glances at me, and, seeing that I am also assessing her, quickly turns away with a slight blush.

We file onto the stage and the crowd literally goes wild. They chant our names in eerie unison, jumping up and down and reaching out their hands to touch us, though we are far from the reach of their wiggling fingers. The cheering quickly becomes feral crows and hoots. It's rather frightening. I can see, by the way Muriel blinks and slightly leans away, that she also finds their reaction to be overwhelming.

Caesar Flickerman comes on. Contrary to Mags's rumor, his color this year is not pink. It is violet; a dark, bruised purple. A shudder goes down my spine when I see him. He looks like he's just risen from the grave.

He looks dead.

District Four is a naturally superstitious bunch. We have a few extremists, people who believe in mermaids and other creatures of the deep, as well as the more mundane believers, those who scoff at the idea of mermaids but follow their "gut feeling" and steer a ship in a certain direction even though the sea breeze prevents it. I've never given much thought to the supernatural, but Caesar's death-like appearance sends an alarm off in my head. I glance at Muriel and see that her face is drained of color. I know she feels it too, the ominous omen that Caesar's bludgeoned look arouses within me.

The Capitol pays no mind. They applaud boisterously for their beloved interviewer, who is as much a face of the Games as the victors are.

He warms up with a few jokes then calls the first tribute, Bright, to the front. She looks lovely in a swirling gown of smoky gray and jewels stuck to her face, creating a mask. She doesn't give Caesar straight answers to any of his questions, and she nearly glides back to her seat. It's obvious what her angle is. Elusive. Mysterious.

Luster is next. He wears a white suit, and cracks a lot of jokes with Caesar. His angle is humorous, and I have to say that he does a pretty good job. My sides are splitting by the time his three minutes are up, and I even saw Jayce crack a smile once or twice.

Julianne takes my breath away in a rippling gown of peach pink. Her blonde hair glows like a halo in the stage spotlight, and her answers are quiet and modest. She has good things to say about everyone she's asked about, even Jayce. Julianne is the sweetheart of the Hunger Games.

Jayce is the exact opposite. He is fierce and unforgiving, nonchalant and direct in his answers. He sounds more like a military strategist than a seventeen-year-old tribute.

Spring's and Mason's interviews are nearly identical, cunning and intelligent. It is revealed that they have been next door neighbors since they were born. Before then, because their families lived next to each other. They are as close as brother and sister. Neither of them mention anything about killing the other, and they both dodge the question when Caesar asks.

When Muriel walks up, there is a collective gasp. She looks even more striking in the lights of the stage. Ethereal and elegant is her angle, I see now. And, though I never would have expected it of her, she does very well. When I think Muriel I think loud and jealous, manipulative and hotheaded. Her cool answers and tinkling laughter have obviously transfixed the Capitol as much as they have confounded me. The audience is nearly silent over the duration of her interview, erupting into noisy applause as soon as she's finished.

I realize as I'm walking up to the microphone just how childish my interview will seem compared to hers. I'm silently cursing Nath, but the heat of my wrath towards him is only masking the true pain I feel. Mags has dealt Muriel a favorable hand and put me at a disadvantage. She's chosen Muriel, stabbed me in the back and left me struggling to measure up to Muriel's interview. The one person I trusted has betrayed me. So now who can I trust?

My resolve hardens as give the Capitol audience my most seductive smirk.

I can trust no one.

"Well, Finnick Odair," Caesar says as if addressing an old friend. He peers at me, squinting as if trying to ascertain something from my face. "Is that really you?"

This will decide it all. Am I still the teenage heart-throb, hoping that someone will notice me even though my interview pales in comparison to Muriel's? Or do I improvise? I can't seem to make up my mind, but I do know one thing for certain. I'm tired of listlessly following other people's orders. From here, I follow my own path. It seems that my own is the only road I can take without falling off a cliff.

I chuckle low into the microphone. "Yes, it's the new and improved. Apparently I just needed some sprucing up."

"I guess so," Caesar says. "You look like a different person."

"I feel like a new man," I say, nodding.

"I bet your girlfriend back home is having a heyday."

I shrug. "No girlfriend for me, Caesar. I'm still single."

"I'm sure that the young ladies here super excited to hear that!" Caesar says, sweeping his arm towards the audience. "What do you think, ladies? Look at those eyes, am I right?"

The women in the crowd cheer and whistle, squealing with excitement. I flash them a charming smile, and their screeching triples. When I brake out into a sunny grin and duck my head, actually somewhat embarrassed at all the attention, the screaming is so loud that my eardrums almost burst. Even Caesar looks a little alarmed. "Well then, I don't think you'll have any trouble finding a girl here. The District Four ladies obviously don't know what they're missing."

I don't really know what to say to this, and Caesar seems to sense it. He changes the subject. "So, a nine! You're the youngest to get such a high score."

"Years of living on a boat you pick up a trick or two," I say vaguely, winking. "But I don't think I can say anymore without getting in trouble, so..." I mime zipping my mouth, locking it, and tossing the key over my shoulder.

Caesar laughs and nudges me with his arm. "You get in trouble often, Odair?"

"Like I said, living on a boat you pick up a trick or two," I reply. Some of the audience, the majority of them women, scream again.

Caesar messes with his ear. "Careful, if you keep this up then I might have to get a hearing aid! I don't think I've heard so many girls squeal so loud in my life!"

"Trust me, it's new to me too," I say, and this gets a chuckle out of some of the more masculine audience. I smirk. "But you get used to it after a while." The women cheer again.

"So, what's your family like?" Caesar says, changing subject again. "We haven't heard much about them."

"I don't have much of a family," I say. I mean for it to come out wistful, maybe even sad, but it ends up sounding bitter. I have to elaborate. "My mother is gone, and my father isn't well."

A hush has gone over the crowd. Caesar shakes his head, clapping me on the shoulder. "That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear that."

"I do what I can," I say, shrugging as if it's no big deal. "But I want to win so maybe my father can get better. He's only going to deteriorate without medical attention, and I can't get that with my love, you know? I wish I could. Then he wouldn't be sick at all."

No. He'd be dead.

"All I can say is good luck," Caesar concludes.

"Thanks," I say.

We exchange a few more jokes to lighten up the heavy mood, and before I know it the buzzer is ringing and I'm heading to my seat, nearly stumbling as the wall of sound hits me. A bitter taste fills my mouth as the redheaded girl from Five goes up to the stage.

I don't even know what my angle was.

* * *

><p>Mags is angry with me.<p>

We arrive back to our rooms after the interview in stony silence. She doesn't glare or yell, but I can still feel her disappointment in palpable waves. Disappointment, perhaps, that Muriel's interview didn't get all the attention it deserved?

Mags isn't the only one who is angry. My betrayal runs deep into the reservoirs of hellish rage I have burning in my core. Now that we're off the stage and I'm face to face with her, pure, unadulterated hatred balls my hands into fists and makes my veins pulse hotly. I let her hold my life in her hands, and she _used_ me. I remember her words from the first night: _I didn't do it honestly, and I didn't do it without blood. Now I see that Mags does nothing honestly. I should have seen those words for what they were: a warning._

We are going to the arena tomorrow. Muriel will likely get all the silver parachutes. I will have to rely on my own cunning and my own strength.

Strength. Mags said I was strong.

Did she think she was being funny? Filling my head with airy lies and playing me for a fool? I'll show her that I am strong, and this hatred for her and for my father and for Nath and for everyone who never realized how powerful I can be will fuel that strength. My enemies will make me stronger. Everyone is my enemy.

We stop in the living area. It occurs to us all that this will be the last time we see each other unless one of us wins. Augustina sniffles and embraces both me and Muriel, trying to keep her composure. It is rude to cry in public. She flees the room, dabbing at her eyes.

Nath looks at us with a measured, calculating gaze. "Do your best," he says, brushing by Muriel to get to the hallway. He turns to look at us one last time. "And since that's not going to get you out alive, I wish you good luck. You're going to need it." He walks away.

Muriel lets out a shaky breath. "He's so mean."

"He's lost too many," Mags says. We don't need her to elaborate. We know she means tributes.

Muriel goes over and gives Mags a hug. "Thank you for all you've done," she says, closing her eyes. "You've been very kind. And thank you for the ring." She lets go of Mags and drifts away, wiping at her fluttering eyelids.

_Thank you for the ring. Muriel had a token, so she was in no need of Mags's jewelry. Unless, of course, Mags uses it every year to gain her tribute's trust. She probably told Muriel the same story she told me, about her sister. Did she even have a sister? I wonder if she uses the same necklace and ring every year. Does she pry them off our dead bodies when we're shipped home?_

My bottom lip is trembling with sorrow and betrayal and hatred. Mags mistakes this for my missing her, and envelopes me in a hug. I can't take it. I raise my arms and I push her off of me. I pushed her harder than I meant to, and she nearly falls to the ground.

"Finnick!" she says, catching herself on the wall.

I snap the necklace off my neck and throw it at her feet. "I don't want it! You can give it to the poor sucker of a tribute next year! Maybe he'll see you for the swine you really are sooner than I did!"

"What?" Mags hisses.

"You're a liar and a manipulator and a poor excuse for a human being!" I shout, pointing an accusing finger at her. "You knew what Muriel was doing for her interview, and you knew that if I did the cute little teenage idol bit then her angle would look even more impressive! I'd have looked like a little kid beside her, and no one would have remembered my nine or how deadly I might be! All they would have been able to think about was cute, arrogant, young Finnick Odair, trying to impress his little eight-year-old fangirls with winks and smiles!"

"Is that why you messed up your interview?" Mags says, her voice raising. "Because you thought I was manipulating you?"

"I didn't mess up my interview! I messed up your plan to mess up my interview!"

"Finnick, if you had answered the questions like we rehearsed, you would've looked like a child prodigy in the eyes of the Capitol!" Mags exclaims. "Yes, they would have seen you in a younger light, but you _are_ young! The Capitol would have seen that, but they also would have seen all the amazing things you've done! Your scores and your abilities are superior to at least half of your older competition. I admit that your interview would have complimented Muriel's, but hers would have done yours justice too. You have the same scores and equal abilities. People would have thought, 'Look at her, she's so elegant and mature. But her partner, he's done the same thing, and he's two years younger at that.' Instead, you attempted to be seductive and you seemed like a little boy unsuccessfully trying to be a man."

That stings. But it also makes sense. I scowl at her, hating her even more for it, and I point my next argument in her face like a loaded gun. "What about the ring?"

Mags gives me a look. "What ring?"

"The ring Muriel mentioned!" I scream, tugging at my hair in exasperation. "What, did you feed her the same load of dung that you fed me? Did that ring belong to your alleged 'drowned sister' too?"

Mags eyes become wide, then her face hard and stony. "Muriel was talking about her grandmother's ring," she says coolly. "I knew her grandmother. She was good friends with my 'alleged drowned sister' and she gave it to me before she died last year. I thought Muriel might have wanted it to keep."

My mind searches for another argument, another betrayal, but that is it. The interviews and the ring were the only thing that caused my trust in Mags to be ripped apart and replaced by bubbling hatred. With the hatred now gone too, I am drained of all emotion and energy. I sink to my knees and put my head in my hands. Before I know it, tears are flowing down my face and ragged sobs are clawing their way out of my chest. Is this what Aurora felt like earlier today? Is this what it's like, disappointing the one you wish to please most?

Mags doesn't approach me. I can feel that she is as betrayed as I was. She doesn't believe that I would think these things, suspect these horrible deeds of her.

When did I become so awful as to think she would do all that? When did I become so jealous and accusing, going on bottled up emotions rather than proof? Was my trust, my reluctant love for Mags the thing that caused all this? I'm not good at love, not even the friendship kind. And how can I be? I've never loved anything except for the ocean. And no one has ever loved me.

I don't know how long I sit here, bawling my eyes out like a baby. I cry until I have no more tears, of anger or of sorrow, so I must have sat here for a long time. When I finally look up, Mags is gone. It makes me want to cry again, to think that I've lost the only friend I've ever had.

I might die tomorrow, and she didn't even say goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>LONG, DRAMATIC CHAPTER! I'm sorry I took so long to update, but the long dramatic chapter made up for it I think. :) <strong>

**Poor, poor Finnick. Poor Mags. **

**Arena next chapter! Is it wrong for me to be excited about this?**


	8. The Arena: Day One

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he** **A****rena** - **D****ay** **O****ne

* * *

><p>Today is the day.<p>

We go to the arena today. But I'm not focused. I can't focus on the Hunger Games when I've hurt my only friend so badly. I realize now, as I'm changing into my arena clothes, that I overreacted to the extreme.

A brown shirt and tawny pants. A brown leather belt. Black boots. This is what I am bringing in to the arena. Taurus is waiting outside the door for me to change. I will not be seeing Aurora, Cybele, or Faustus again unless I win.

I quickly change and grab the notebook and pencil from the drawer. I write _I'm so sorry, Mags_ on the paper, and sit there for another five minutes thinking of something else to say. I have nothing. So I write _Will you please forgive me if I live, even though I'm a total jerk?_ and then I sign my name. Maybe if I win it will get a laugh out of her. Maybe she'll toss it. I don't know. I don't have a way to give it to her secretly, but perhaps I can convince Taurus to slip it to her later.

Taurus bangs on the door. "You done in there yet?"

"Yes," I reply, stuffing the note into my pocket. I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I don't own anything to forget.

As we walk through the living area, I almost step on something. It's Mags's round locket, my would-be district token. I can't wear it now. So I fold up the note and stick it inside when Taurus isn't looking, and then I pretend that I find it. I tell him it's Mags's and ask him to give it to her for me. He takes it and says he will. It puts my mind at ease just a little bit, until I remember where he's taking me.

The metal plate that will lift me into the arena is menacing. My heart speeds up just looking at it. Taurus doesn't offer any words of wisdom; he just shakes my hand and leaves. It's a hollow, emotionless goodbye. I wonder if Aurora is crying right now, knowing that I'm going to the arena, but I doubt that she is. She didn't come and see me today, even though I know she could have. In some ways, Aurora is as hollow and emotionless as her father.

I step on the plate and close my eyes as the plastic surrounds me and I rise upward. I wonder what exactly is above me. Desert? Mountains? Ocean? I hope there's an ocean. That would be comforting.

I open my eyes and I'm nearly blinded. I may not have gotten an ocean, but I got the next best thing.

Wetlands dominate as far as the eye can see. The farther I look from the Cornucopia, the sparser land gets and the deeper the water becomes. The Cornucopia itself is settled on the only solid land I can see, a tiny island made of rich brown sand.

I look around me. On my direct right is Spring, her eyes buzzing in every direction. Next to her is Jayce, who is focused on the loot around the Cornucopia and most likely devising a way he can get to it the fastest. To my left is Bright, who I notice is also looking around, and the midget from Seven.

I bend into a running stance, zeroing in on the Cornucopia. I'm a Career. What do Careers do during the initial bloodbath? They get to the Cornucopia, and they eliminate as much of the competition as possible. That's what I have to do.

The gong sounds, and everybody is leaping off their plates. My feet immediately sink into the mud that hides under about a foot of dirty water, and I have trouble running. But I'm still one of the first to get to the Cornucopia.

And that's when it begins.

It's really horrible if I were to think about it, but I'm not thinking. I'm just _doing_. I grab the first weapon I can get my hands on, a spear. I aim for my target.

The boy from Six dodges my spear, splaying himself on the ground. He scrambles forward, frantically grabbing the backpack he had come for, and he's disappearing into the long grasses of the marsh before I can aim again.

The boy from Eleven tackles me, sending us both to the ground, but he doesn't see the knife I have in my hand. I try to wriggle my way out of his arms so I don't stab myself, but it's no use. When his hands find my neck, I blindly swing the knife his way. He lets out a howl and lets me go. I turn and punch him in the jaw, since I dropped the knife in the struggle. He staggers backward, clutching his face, and someone throws a spear. I look away before I can see it impale him.

Someone pushes me to the ground from behind, and there is the sound of a scuffle. I look up just in time to see Jayce punch the boy from Nine in the gut and grab his neck. With a neat twist of his arm, the boy from Nine is dead.

Jayce deposits him on the ground and sends me a berating glare before heading towards the Cornucopia for a weapon. I get to my feet, looking at my surroundings, expecting more attackers. But the other tributes have scattered like ants. Bright is the only one left fighting, but as I watch she slices at the girl from Ten and she falls to the ground. Wiping the bloodied blade on her pants, she heads towards the Cornucopia with Luster, Muriel, and Jayce.

Julianne is walking around the island, her belt already laden with weapons, her knife poised against attack. I don't know what she's doing until I see her rush over to the supposed corpse of the midget from Seven and holds him down as he tries to scramble away.

His screams stop when I turn my back on them.

Muriel is watching them too, with narrowed eyes. "I heard they call her the Angel of Death back home," she tells me. Then she turns around and walks over to the others. I follow her wordlessly, but I can't help think that this name suits Julianne from what I've seen.

"We'll go at dusk," Jayce is saying, testing the sharp point of a blade and sticking it in his belt with the others he has collected. He also carries a backpack, probably filled with other weapons and food. "Muriel, get all the torches and matches and anything else that can make a fire and put them in a pile. We're going to need light for tonight."

Muriel nods and heads off, digging and sorting through the pile of supplies. Luster comes over, two spears strapped across his back and a bag of spearheads hanging from his belt. Bright follows close behind, brandishing a bow and a sheath of arrows as well as several knives.

I take two long knives, two short ones, and a spear. It's not enough, I know, but I don't think I can carry anymore. I also start to take a backpack with some food and water, but Luster scoffs at me. "We'll take care of that stuff later, when we have the body count," he says. "Just focus on weapons right now."

I put the stuff back.

Julianne comes over. "Nine are dead," she reports faithfully, counting off on her fingers. "The boy from Five, the girl from Six, both from Seven, the boy from Eight, surprisingly, the boy from Nine, the girl from Ten, the boy from Eleven, and both from Twelve."

Jayce is busy calculating. "That leaves both from Three, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the little girl from Eight, the girl from Nine, the boy from Ten, and the girl from Eleven. Eight of them left."

_Right, I think to myself. _Eight left; before we turn on each other_._

As if to disband this ominous thought, the cannons go off. There are ten. Julianne frowns. "Somebody must have been wounded and died in the swamp," she says with a shrug. "We'll find out who later."

"So seven left," Jayce nods. "Good."

Good? Ten people died in the course of half an hour! I don't see how this is good news, and the others are looking equally grim. Even for the Careers, the immense loss of life during the initial bloodbath is sobering.

We drag the bodies to a centralized location and pick off anything they might have managed to grab a hold of before they died. As soon as we're done, the chirping of bugs and frogs goes silent and a hovercraft appears. A giant metal claw makes nine trips down to the pile of dead bodies and leaves after they are all retrieved. The noise of the swamp is restored, but silence among the Careers is still heavy in the air.

"We need to come up with a way to secure our supplies," Jayce finally begins, looking at the mound of stuff we have sorted for lack of anything else to do until nightfall. We've also been taking turns sleeping; Bright was taking a nap, but Luster wakes her up when Jayce starts talking. "Any ideas?"

"Someone could guard," Muriel suggests.

"That won't be enough," Jayce dismisses.

"How about we dig a big hole and cover it with leaves?" Luster snickers, earning a deadly scowl from Jayce. He puts his head down and shuts up, though I can still see the grin plastered on his face. I wonder if nerves are making him hysterical.

"Luster might be getting somewhere," I put in, tapping my chin in thought. "We could set up a booby trap or something around the supplies."

Julianne nods. "What if we wound a string around the food, and if someone touches it it triggers some kind of weapon to swing down from the trees, like an ax?"

"Trees aren't big enough or close enough," Jayce says. He frowns. "I think we'll just go with Muriel's plan for now, until we can think up something better. It's starting to get dark."

He orders Bright and Muriel to guard the supplies, finally slapping Luster on the back of the head when he complains about the arrangement.

The rest of us grab torches, packs of supplies, and more weapons. Even as night falls, the air is still humid and hot. The trees don't seem like they're very good for fires, and there's probably not even enough dry ground to get one started, but I don't think anyone will need to be kept warm. It doesn't occur to me that others might need to cook food, because I already have so much.

As we get further from the Cornucopia, the water becomes deeper and the trees become taller, their roots sinking and spreading into the mud of the swamp. Hanging moss, which I sometimes see in District Four, forms a thick canopy overhead where the gnarled tree branches don't. You can hardly see the sky in some places.

Luckily, we can see the wide, starless sky when the anthem plays and the faces are shown. We all look up, waiting with anticipation for those who we will be hunting.

To my surprise, Mason is the first face to pop up. He must have gotten injured in battle and died as he and Spring ran away from the Cornucopia. I feel a bit of sympathy for Spring, who must be distraught and aching for her childhood friend, but I push it down before any of the others can sense it.

The rest of the faces are the ones killed in the initial bloodbath. The anthem plays again and the light goes off, leaving us surrounded by darkness except for the fire blazing off our torches.

"Alright," Jayce says in a low whisper, "let's move out."

* * *

><p>We hunt all night, fighting through thick, smelly waters and patches of marine fauna. The sun is peaking over the horizon when Jayce begrudgingly calls it quits, and we head back to the Cornucopia. We are almost there when Julianne stops, pricking up an ear.<p>

"What are you - ?" I begin, but Jayce clamps a hand over my mouth.

"She hears something," he whispers. I don't know how she can hear anything, considering the deafening serenade of crickets and frogs and who-knows-what. Julianne is stock-still, her eyes roaming the dark trees warily. Finally she stops and relaxes, straightening into a normal walk.

"It was nothing. Just my imagination."

No sooner do the words come out of her mouth does a blur launch itself from a tree, making a splash beside Julianne. It would have hit her if she hadn't dived out of the way just in time. The person lunges for Julianne again, and she kicks her away. I can almost hear ribs crack, and the person flies away.

Spring scrambles out of the water, drenched and clutching her side. She looks livid, her black eyes glowing with hatred and her breath coming out in shallow gasps. "You - killed - him," she accuses, pointing at Julianne. Nobody needs clarification as to who she is talking about.

Julianne doesn't miss a beat. "It's the Hunger Games, dear. People die."

Spring's face glows red and she projects herself towards Julianne, brandishing a knife. Julianne swings the fiery torch and makes solid contact. Spring's jump falls short and she hits the water on her side, taking a moment longer to get back up then last time.

Julianne is stepping forward, but Spring has had enough. Bloodied, bruised, and most likely broken, she scrambles away into the safety of the trees.

"Get her!" Jayce orders, and we all plow through the water after her. But it's no use. Spring is small and agile. She's already gone. Jayce curses and hits a tree, causing debris to rain down on us. Julianne looks equally peeved, but her anger comes in the form of a dangerous calm.

I shiver. Neither of them are to be crossed.

"Don't worry, Jayce," Julianne says coolly, turning to look at the place where Spring disappeared, "we'll catch her and give the audience a good show."

I don't like the sound of that, but I keep my mouth shut.

By the time we make it back to the Cornucopia, dawn has made the sky a fuzzy lavender. Muriel and Bright are wide awake, munching on some bread. Muriel quirks an eyebrow when she sees us. "I didn't hear any cannons go off," she remarks.

Luster promptly tells her to be quiet.

"The guy from Ten came and offered his support," Bright reports, cleaning her finger nails. "He was useless and stupid. I told him all slots were full. He didn't seem to happy about it."

"Did you let him get away?" Jayce growls, glaring at them.

"Of course not," Muriel defends, rolling her eyes. "Give us some credit, please. We didn't kill him on the spot, but we cut him up pretty good. If that didn't finish him off, another tribute will."

Jayce nods with approval. That's enough for him right now.

"We'll regroup tomorrow," he says, throwing his spear on the ground. "For now, we need to get some sleep. Luster and I will take watch first."

I have no complaints. Trekking the shallow waters of the swamp has made me soggy and tired. I flop down between Muriel and Julianne, watching as my district partner snuggles against a spear and the Angel of Death tucks a knife in her hand.

A single cannon goes off as I drift into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>So, if you need a recap: Luster, Bright, Jayce, Julianne, Spring (?), Finnick, Muriel, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the twelve-year-old girl from Eight, the girl from Nine, the boy from Ten (?), and the girl from Eleven are all (possibly, in some cases) alive.<strong>

**RIP: Mason, boy from Five, girl from Six, midget from Seven, girl from Seven, boy from Eight, boy from Nine, girl from Ten, boy from Eleven, boy from Twelve, and girl from Twelve.**

**Hope the first day in the arena was exciting enough for you. There was a lot of death, but Finnick didn't witness much of it. There won't be as much death in the next chapter (they call it the initial bloodbath for a reason) but Finnick will be present for more of it. Also, you'll learn a little more about the tributes.**

**Review if you liked it, or if you think there's something I should fix. :) **


	9. The Arena: Day Two

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **T**wo

* * *

><p>It is mid-morning when Bright wakes me up for my shift of watching the Cornucopia's goods. I must have been really tired from the hunt through the swamp last night, because the sun is glaring right in my face and I didn't even notice.<p>

Muriel is circling the piles of supplies, looking pensive and holding a spear ready in her hand. I fall into step beside her, marching to the serenade of the swamp. It can't be later than nine o'clock, and already Muriel and I are sweating rivulets. That last remnants of fog hang right above the water like a shroud, concealing the thick tangles of swamp in it's midst.

"You should've seen it earlier," Muriel remarks, looking out into the ominous wetland, "it was beautiful. Probably just as beautiful as the ocean back home."

I wonder if Muriel is being sincere with me, or if she's acting for the cameras. I suppose it doesn't really matter. "If only it wasn't so humid," I say.

"Jayce says it's going to get worse," Muriel replies. "We're going to hunt when the sun starts to set. Everyone but Luster is going."

This strikes me as odd. Luster doesn't seem like the most observant amongst us; surely Jayce wouldn't trust just him to protect our supplies, the very thing that gives the Careers an edge in the Games?

"Does he have some other kind of trap set up?" I ask, uncertain.

"Not as far as I know," Muriel shrugs. "I know where you're coming from; I might volunteer to stay here just to make sure that idiot doesn't goof off while we're gone." She pauses, and frowns at the swamp. "There's five other tributes. That's not a lot."

"No," I say.

"We're all going to die if Jayce and Julianne stay alive," Muriel says. She looks at me. "If they don't go soon, we'll be their next targets. Luster and Bright we could handle; but we're no match against District Two."

"We?" I inquire. Since when did Muriel and I become a 'we'?

"If District Four is going to win this year, Finnick, we need to form an alliance with each other," Muriel says intently. "An alliance stronger than what we have now. This Career pack isn't going to last for must longer, and everybody knows it. Once Jayce and Julianne decide that they don't need us anymore, they're going to stab us in the back; all of us. We need to make sure we beat them to it. We need to trust each other, Finnick."

I don't know what to think. We've only been in the arena for a day; usually the Career pack lasts for three or four. And generally they don't all turn on each other; they are slowly picked off by the traps in the Game or by other tributes fighting for their lives. But then again, we all did get at least nines this year. Maybe Muriel's right. Depending on traps and other tributes isn't going to be enough.

I don't really trust anyone in the Career pack. Even though Muriel is my district partner, I've already seen that she will do anything to give herself even the slightest advantage. She's not particularly cunning, and she's not the best fighter, but Muriel does have one admirable quality: she's aggressive. She will throw her word to the dust and stab everybody in the back to win this Game. Including me.

A secret alliance means nothing with Muriel. She will try to make me her pawn, get me comfortable with her so that she can easily kill me later. But Muriel's right. Alone, I don't stand a chance against anybody.

"Okay," I say, holding out a hand. "We'll be allies, thicker than the Career pack. If we have to bail than we'll do it together."

Muriel smiles and shakes my hand. She thinks she has me right where she wants me. She thinks she has maybe just a dash of my trust. She thinks that she can manipulate me to do whatever she wants and then kill me when I become useless. But she can't.

Not if I beat her to the punch.

* * *

><p>I guard with Muriel for a few hours, then tell her to get some rest. She wakes up Jayce to come assist me. He is silent and stoic, watching every move in the swamp. I don't think we say two words to each other. Finally, I ask about something that has been bothering me all day.<p>

"You're letting Luster guard this place tonight all by himself?" I startle Jayce out of some kind of reverie. He turns towards me, his default frown in place.

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"

"What if someone tries to steal some food or something? He might not see them, or if it's a group of people..." I trail off, glancing up. Jayce is pursing his lips in thought.

"Don't underestimate him," he says finally. "He may not be smart, but he can fight pretty well. He'll be able to take on a few brats by himself. Besides, we need everyone if we're going to catch anybody in that swamp tonight."

"Do you think Spring died yesterday?" I blurt out.

"Who?" Jayce says.

"The girl from Three. She attacked Julianne because her district partner died and Julianne messed her up. Do you think it was her or the boy from Ten who died last night?"

"I don't know. I guess we'll find out soon," Jayce says, looking up at the sky. The sun is just starting to dip into the horizon; we'll be leaving any minute. "Why? You know her or something?"

"No. I was just wondering...she seemed upset about it, and she's very clever. I wouldn't put it past her to plot some kind of grand revenge. She was really close with Mason," I explain.

Jayce doesn't say anything. He takes one more look at the sky and starts waking up the others.

We head out into the swamp, torches ablaze and weapons close to our side. Luster looks a little bit crestfallen being left alone at the Cornucopia, but he doesn't complain. Perhaps the growing number of welts on the back of his head has something to do with it.

There is no sound for a while but the sloshing of our feet in the mucky water and the animals of the swamp moving. Every splash, every swish, every croak sets Jayce on edge. Is it another tribute? Is it a dangerous trap? Is it a harmless animal? We can never tell.

The faces in the sky come to reveal that it was the boy from Ten whose cannon shot I heard last night before I went to sleep. Spring is still alive somewhere out here, recuperating from from Julianne's defense. This information does little to put our nerves at ease.

The farther we travel into the swamp, the more treacherous it becomes. The trees become thicker, the water deeper. Soon we are wading with the muck up to our waists, doing our best to keep the torches from fizzling out. As the sun sinks, the humidity doesn't drop. If anything, it gets worse. The moisture in the air makes us sluggish and suffocates us. My grip on the knife is slippery with sweat.

"Wait," Bright says, squinting into the foliage, "did you see that?"

"See what?" Jayce says, furrowing his brow.

"I saw something move over there," Bright breathes, pointing to her right. She edges closer to the tree, holding the torch up to the branches and shooing the shadows away.

It happens too quickly for us to process. Bright leaps back and drops the torch, screaming as she tries to swim towards us. There is the sound of splashing and a great snap, and her screams become ones of pain, not horror.

The alligator drags Bright underwater by her leg, and no matter how much she tries to swim up she can't reach the surface. We can only watch in terror as the alligator rolls over and over, twisting and tangling Bright's mangled limbs in his jaws. She has stopped screaming, but no cannon shot has been heard.

"Get out of here!" Jayce orders, pushing us away from the alligator. Julianne looks at him in reproach, but he stonily shakes his head. "There's nothing we can do for her now."

We hurry away from the scene of Bright's demise, trying to block out the wet, sloshing sounds of the alligator's gymnastics. I try not to gag as I recall the pink foam that crested the waves of red swamp water. I look down at myself, and see that my clothes are stained with Bright's blood. We were that close, and we just stood there and watched her die.

Her cannon goes off. I hope that they are deciding to shoot it off now that the alligator is done, and not because she's just died. To think that she was still alive until now...

We move on stoically, soberly. Bright's death has done nothing to stop us from our real purpose: to eliminate the other tributes. The competition. The people who slipped through our fingers during the bloodbath.

"I hear something," Julianne says, just as the sun starts to peak over the horizon. "Something is swimming around about ten feet to my left."

I don't remark about her incredible sense of hearing, but Muriel raises her eyebrows at me. She either thinks Julianne is some kind of superhuman, or she thinks Julianne's bluffing. At this point, I'm not sure which.

Jayce doesn't react. He keeps walking.

"It's closer now," Julianne says out of the corner of her mouth, looking straight ahead. "About seven feet..."

"Trying to hear what we're saying," I put in as quietly as I can.

Julianne minutely nods. "I think so."

Jayce pricks up. I hear it too. The sound of someone gently lapping towards us through the water. Someone must know how to swim. This thought has occurred to Jayce too, because he looks at me with an expression of suddenly finding a use for a tool he's never touched. "Go check it out. Quietly."

I know better than to argue. I hand Muriel my spear and backpack and slowly drift to the left of our party. If it's another tribute, they shouldn't be able to see us yet. I have to get to them before they can, or they'll notice I'm missing.

I don't want to think about will happen if this mysterious something isn't human.

I'm silent as a half-swim, half-creep through the water, keeping an ear out. I hear a splash a little to my left, then I see the very tip of a head.

It's the little girl from Eight. Nobody else in the arena is that small. She doesn't know I'm behind her until my knife is at her throat. She stops and freezes, petrified.

"Wh-who are you?" she breathes. Her voice is so soft, so high and sweet. I remember her from the interviews: innocent. Pure. Everything the Capitol is not.

"Finnick. District Four," I tell her. She shudders and grabs my arm. Her hands are tiny, but calloused. They don't even make it all the way around my arm, but her grip is like iron.

"Just do it fast," she says. She sniffs and something wet drops on my arm. A tear? Is she crying? Of course she is; she's no fearless killer. She's a little girl with a knife held to her throat. My knife.

But she's still a tribute. She's still in the way of my victory, my win. If I don't kill her now, she's either going to win or someone else is going to kill her. What if it's someone who enjoys a show? What if something happens to her that's slow, painful, merciless? Would killing her now be mercy on my part, or just cruel?

What would a Career do?

The answer to that is simple; I would kill her. I would make it entertaining for the Capitol. I would do it to raise my chances of winning the Game. But that feels wrong. I shouldn't be asking what a Career would do, because I'm not just any Career. I am Finnick Odair. Instead, I should be asking: What would Finnick Odair do?

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Ivory," the little girl sobs, raking her nails down my arm. She's squirming, drawing blood from the immobile knife on her throat. "Please, please I have a little brother, he needs me, _please_ - "

"I'm sorry, Ivory," I say.

It's so easy. Just a quick flick of my hand, really. Reeling in a fishing line is harder. However, the consequences are so much more severe. Instead of a dead fish, there is a dead girl in my hands. Only twelve years old; a younger brother she took care of; a hard worker; strong for her size. Ivory. Her name was Ivory.

And now, she is gone.

I drop her body into the swamp. Her blood seeps into the water, spreading and swirling and mingling with the muck. I hold up my hands and stare at them; Ivory's blood is on my hands, in more ways than one. I am the alligator, the beast, the monster.

I will never forget the sound of her cannon shot. It will echo in my head forever.

* * *

><p>To my surprise, Jayce doesn't seem pleased that I killed the little girl. He only nods and decides that it's time to head back to the Cornucopia. Muriel is mildly shocked that I actually killed Ivory, and Julianne displays no emotion whatsoever. I guess she's too used to death.<p>

"Who's going to tell Luster what happened to Bright?" Muriel whispers as we near the small island. The thought of telling Luster that his district partner was eaten by an alligator makes me shudder.

Jayce considers this. "We'll all tell him."

Luster is lazily dragging the spear along the ground as he makes his rounds. He stands in attention when he hears us, poising the spear for attack, but relaxes when he catches a glimpse of Julianne beating through the foliage.

"I heard two shots," he said, jogging over to us with his usual oblivious grin. "Who - ?" He stops when he counts us. I can see it calculating in his head; there's someone missing here. The grin falls from his face. "Where's Bright?" he asks.

I look at my shoes.

"Dead," Jayce says gruffly, "Bright is dead."

Luster blanches. He takes a breath. He swallows. I recognize the signs of holding back tears. "How...?"

And this is the difficult part. Now we must tell him that an alligator tore her limb from limb, drowned her, and had her as a midnight snack. Jayce opens his mouth to speak, but Julianne interjects before he can.

"The girl from Eight," she lies smoothly, "she killed Bright. She swam up behind her and cut her throat. Finnick caught the girl and did the same. She was taken by surprise, Luster. A coward took her down when she wasn't looking. But she was avenged."

Luster looks at me with something like gratitude, then nods and heads off. He liked Bright very much; he will cry over her death. I doubt we will see his easygoing smile any time soon.

Muriel and even Jayce are giving Julianne a look of disbelief. I can see why she lied; to spare Luster's feelings. But the fact that she concocted such a flawless fib is what unnerves me. Has she been thinking up the lie one the way back? Did she come up with it on the spot? She did not stutter, or look away when she did it; in fact, she seemed perfectly grave and calm.

Which begs the question: if Julianne can lie about Bright's death so easily, what else has she been lying to us about?

* * *

><p><strong>Recap: Luster, Jayce, Julianne, Spring, Finnick, Muriel, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the girl from Nine, and the girl from Eleven are all alive.<strong>

**RIP: the boy from Ten, Bright, and Ivory.**

**The dynamics of the Career pack are slowly crumbling; what little trust they had is no more. Things are getting boring from a Capitol standpoint...expect a little bit of a twist in the next chapter.**

**Thoughts?**


	10. The Arena: Day Three

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **T**hree

* * *

><p>Luster takes Bright's death better than I thought he would. In fact, I think Jayce might even be a little bit glad that Bright was eliminated from the Games. Luster doesn't goof off anymore, he doesn't complain, and he doesn't smile. He's obviously more focused on the Games and ready to win. He's practically Jayce's idea of a perfect soldier.<p>

Muriel seems appeased too, now that he's not being what she calls an "idiot," but Julianne and I are both grave about Bright's death and it's effect on Luster. If he's not acting like himself, there's no telling what he might do. Luster was also that spark in our group, the one who kept the atmosphere fairly light; for the Hunger Games, at least. Now he's just as serious and intense as the rest of us, and it's obviously putting some strain on everyone.

Julianne and I have been working on setting up traps around the Cornucopia to protect the supplies. Jayce doesn't want anyone staying behind now that we're short on numbers. We don't talk much, but it's a companionable quiet. Still, I haven't shaken off the eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach her slick lying has aroused.

"Finnick, will you hand me that?" she asks, gesturing to the hammer on the ground. There are enough to go around, but we don't feel like lugging two around everywhere. Muriel and Jayce are using another one across the island. They sometimes work at building the trap, and sometimes they converse with Luster, their heads low. It looks like their making a map of the arena. I don't know how they can; it all looks the same to me.

"Why did you lie to Luster about Bright's death?" I say, handing her the hammer. There's no use holding it in, or trying to pretend like I'm not suspicious. Everybody's wondering the same thing.

Julianne sighs and her gaze flutters down to the stake in the ground. It's hard to take my eyes off her; skin glowing golden in the sunlight, honey-blonde hair gleaming in a halo around her head, representing everything that is warm and good and safe. She looks nothing short of a forlorn angel.

The Angel of Death.

That thought is enough to bring me back down to earth. If there is one thing that Julianne is not, it's safe. No one here in the arena is safe.

"You know why I did it," she says, wringing her elegant hands. "If he's like this now, what do you think he'd be like if we told him the truth? I didn't want it to break him. It was different for him and Bright than it is with our district partners. To us, Muriel and Jayce are simply a comfort, a last connection to our home. But Luster genuinely liked Bright, not just what she represented."

It makes sense, the way she says it. Of course Muriel isn't a comfort to me whatsoever, but I can understand the mentality. You latch on to your district partner in the arena because they are like you.

Julianne changes the subject. She holds up the rope we are using for the trap, looking uncertain. "Do you really think this is going to work?"

"No," I say honestly. The trap is a thing that Jayce manufactured last night after we got back. There is a trip wire that runs all the way around the camp. If you step on it, it triggers either an ax or a net, depending on where you are. If someone happens to get past the trip wire, we have also poisoned the outside layer of food. Muriel's ingenious idea, one that I have to admit is rather effective. I don't think Jayce's trip wire will work, but Muriel's poison will be hard to avoid. I don't say this, because I have the feeling that Julianne doesn't care for Muriel much.

We finish the trap and head back to get some rest, but Jayce springs a surprise one us. "We're going to start hunting now," he says, grabbing his gear. The idea seems ludicrous to me, because I haven't gotten my shift of sleep yet, but he's had a good five hours of rest. Luster also seems exasperated, since he hasn't had enough sleep either, but the two of us don't say anything.

Even in the daylight, the swamp is alive with sounds. Sun streams in through the canopy, speckled on the swamp muck that we trudge through. It's not helping with my fatigue. At this point, I can barely hold up a spear.

"Let's split up," Jayce says, stopping. "Luster, Muriel, and I will go this way. Julianne and Finnick, go that way. We'll get more ground covered. Meet up at the Cornucopia after they show the faces."

So we split up. Like when we were building the traps, Julianne and I don't say anything to each other. We stomp through the swamp, keeping our ears and eyes open. I don't dare let my attention wander, even though Julianne is more likely to catch something suspicious with her supersonic senses.

The sun sets with few scares and no kills. I can tell that Julianne wants to head back and meet up with the others, so I suggest we head that way. She declines the offer, but she still buzzes with energy.

Finally, the anthem rings in our ears and we look up. No one was killed today. I swallow the lump in my throat, nervously licking my lips. The Capitol will be getting antsy if this peace in the arena keeps up. They will force us together, force us to fight.

"I guess we better head back to camp," I say, glancing at Julianne. She nods, but still seems to be looking for something. Maybe she's thinking along the same lines as I am and hoping that we run into another tribute on our way back.

That's when the first cannon shot goes off.

Suddenly I'm knocked to the unstable ground, stunned. Julianne stands over me, grim triumph flashing across all of her features, holding a knife high over my head. "I didn't expect it to be this easy," she says, and brings down the blade.

I roll over and it sinks into the muck, just inches from where my head was. I swing my foot under Julianne's legs and knock her down with me. She kicks out blindly and manages to nick me in the side. Then she scrambles up and knocks me back down with her weight. Julianne is stronger than she looks.

"Traitor," I hiss, punching her in the gut. I have no regards as to whether she is male or female at this point; she is just the enemy. She and Jayce must have come up with some kind of plan to get rid of the rest of the Careers while they had the chance. That cannon - it must be one of the others -

Julianne brings her fist back and socks me right in the nose, sending blinding pain up my face. "Sorry, Finnick," she growls, rolling back on top of me and pinning my shoulders down with her knees. She grins darkly. "It's nothing personal. If anything, I kind of liked you. But there can only be one victor."

Another cannon goes off.

Then I see it, right there over her shoulder. A dozen silver parachutes, glittering in the moonlight, sinking to the ground at an alarming speed, strapped to something wonderful and magnificent.

A trident. A gleaming golden trident that I will never have the opportunity to use, because Julianne is sliding another knife out of her belt and resting its cruel edge on the flesh of my neck, and no matter how much I struggle, no matter how much I try to fight, I'm too tired and weak. I can't get her off of me.

I'm going to die.

Muriel said that they call Julianne the Angel of Death in District Two. Right now, she looks nothing like an angel. She is cut and covered in mud, her face screwed up into the ugliest smile I have ever witnessed. It's too late, but now I can clearly see her for what she is; not an angel, but a demon. A demon sent here straight from the fiery depths of the place they used to call Hell.

"Bye, Finnick," she says.

I think that Mags has sent me another miracle when something suddenly rams into Julianne and she falls into the muck beside me, maybe a big wrecking ball or something. I don't check to make sure. I scramble off the ground without a thought except to get to that trident, the one slowly sinking into the mud, tarnishing its golden surface -

"Julianne! Julianne!"

The sound of Jayce crashing through the swamp overrides everything. My fingers close around the trident just as he bursts into the clearing, assessing the situation. He sees two tangled bodies rolling around in the mud, not sure who is who, not sure where to strike his mighty spear -

Then he sees me, the golden trident in my hands, and we we both throw.

His spear catches me in the shoulder. The pain is overwhelming, but I hear a cannon shot and I know it's not mine, because I can still feel this agony in my shoulder. Jayce, he is dead.

My savior and Julianne are still wrestling, but it looks like Julianne is gaining the upper hand. I have to help this person, because they rescued me whether that was their intention or not. I owe them my life.

It's agonizing, slow, and I think I might have blacked out a couple times, but I drag myself to Jayce's body. I can barely pull the trident out of his chest, my fingers are clumsy with exhaustion and my eyes are blurring from the pain, but with one final tug it releases it's grip. I stumble back and catch myself on a gnarly tree. I focus the last of my energy on Julianne's back. She's holding my savior under a deeper part of the water, drowning them.

_Laughing._

I scream when the trident leaves my hand, my shoulder clenching in white-hot pain. I fall forward, clutching it in my hand. It comes back dripping with red.

The world goes black for a second.

Then I can see again, just a little bit, and I look up to make sure that Julianne is dead. I didn't hear her cannon go off, but blood is pooling around the spot where my trident stands, straight-up, sinking into the dirt. Someone is sputtering and coughing, wiping water and mud out of their mouth, but I can't see who it is.

The next thing I know I'm laying on my back in the water and someone is standing over me, holding my own trident to my throat. They're breathing in ragged gasps, hunching to one side, covered in blood and muck.

It's Spring.

"Don't...kill me..." I wheeze. The world goes out of focus, and I struggle to claw back into consciousness. I have a feeling that what I say now will determine whether I live until morning.

"Give me...one reason not to," Spring breathes.

My muddled brain tries to think of this reason she demands. Certainly I can't get any pity from her, and I highly doubt I will be able to charm her in the state we're in. If she didn't want to save me, then why did she attack Julianne? Oh, yes, Mason. Julianne killed Mason.

"I killed...Julianne..." I say. "I saved your life...and avenged Mason."

Spring seems surprised that I know her partner's name, but the emotion quickly fades from her sharp features. "You didn't do it to avenge him," she spits, "and you didn't do it to save my life. She would've killed you when she was done with me. Besides, _I_ wanted to kill her." She presses the trident to my throat. "Killing you is only becoming more and more tempting."

Come on! Think of something!

"The food!" I exclaim, wondering why it didn't come to me before. "The food and supplies at the Cornucopia. There are traps."

"I'm sure I can get past them," Spring says blandly, as if no Career is going to out-smart her in any aspect.

"Some of the food is poisoned, and only I know what is and isn't," I point out, desperately hoping she is hungry. "I'm not going to tell you unless you let me live."

"And how do I know you won't kill me?" Spring asks.

"I'm not cold-blooded like them," I say, nodding at the floating bodies of Jayce and Julianne. "I know when to stop killing. Besides, I need you as much as you need me. Someone has to fix up my shoulder. So how about we make a deal? I won't kill you if you don't kill me."

Spring is considering it. I'm barely on the edge of consciousness now, waiting for her verdict. My last defense, my looks, is tarnished, but at least my eyes are still the same as ever. I unleash their power now, locking them with Spring's black ones, making sure that if she kills me, my eyes are the last thing she'll see. I want them to haunt her forever.

"Fine," she says, dropping the trident at my feet. "I'll form an alliance with you."

"You won't regret it," I say with a smirk. Then my wavering grip on the world slips entirely and I fall into absolute darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Recap: Spring, Finnick, the girl from Five, the boy from Six, the girl from Nine, and the girl from Eleven are all alive<strong>

**RIP: Luster, Muriel, Jayce, and Julianne.**

**Epic battle of the Careers! I had no trouble writing this chapter. Finnick has his trident now, and a new (but reluctant) partner; what shall become of this?**


	11. The Arena: Day Four

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **F**our

* * *

><p><em>I'm swimming.<em>

_In the ocean. I can't tell which way is up or down, left or right, but it doesn't concern me. I don't need to worry about trivial things like breathing. I just know that I'm suspended in the water, and it's pleasantly cool. I wouldn't mind staying here forever, without a thought, without a care, just resting in this cool water._

_Suddenly, there is a sharp pain in my shoulder. I look over to see a tiny orange fish nibbling at my flesh, burrowing its razor-sharp teeth into my skin. "Shoo," I say, waving it away. Nothing comes out of my mouth but a bubble, and I find that there is seaweed holding my hand at my side. I can't move it._

_The fish continues to feast, wriggling its tail to dig further into my shoulder, drawing up a small stream of blood. Now fear is settling into the pit of my stomach. The scent of blood will bring on bigger beasts, ones much more terrifying than this little carnivorous fish. I try and wiggle around and spook the fish, only to find my entire body secured by seaweed. Another fish swims my way and rams its head into my side, again and again, sending a dull, throbbing pain up my body. And another one swims right up to my face and latches its teeth onto my nose. _

_"Stop!" I cry, but only bubbles come out. "Stop! Ow, stop it, that hurts!"_

_The seaweed covers my mouth. I can't talk, I can't move, I can only endure this agony._

_The fish begin to speak simultaneously, in a girl's voice. "Finnick, stop moving. I'm trying to help you...Finnick, you can open your eyes...Finnick...Finnick..."_

"Finnick!"

My eyes snap open. Spring is bent over me, holding my mouth closed with her hand. I feel solid ground supporting me, a glint of gold before my eyes; we're back at the Cornucopia. Spring must have disabled the traps.

She looks a lot cleaner, and so do I. My shoulder is bandaged, as well as my other injuries. Spring fixed herself up too. There is a jar of clear cream on the ground next to my trident and a silver parachute. "That came after I washed you," she says, following my line of vision. "It works wonders with cuts; your shoulder's almost completely healed. You have really good sponsors, you know that? I had to take your clothes off when I washed you though, so maybe that's what it is."

It should embarrass me that the entirety of Panem has seen me naked, but I find it more unnerving that Spring alone has. And she's touched me. She seems on my train of thought, because she adds, "Don't worry, I left your underwear on. Panem'll have to pay me to see that show." She smiles at me maliciously, her eyes raking up and down my body. Again, I feel strangely violated, but I know this is just some joking around for the cameras.

"Don't go getting any ideas," I say, smiling as best I can. I try to slowly sit up, but Spring takes my hands and hauls me to my feet without another word. Everything hurts for a second, then recedes back into it's usual dull throbs.

"Show me what food is good," she demands, gesturing to the food pile. "I'm starving. I've already got the supplies we need to take with us, so after we pack up some food we can burn all this and get out of here."

"Burn it? Why?" I ask, cautiously testing out my legs. They seem to be working okay, though not nearly well enough for Spring's impatient pace.

"Because," she huffs, looking at me as though I were an imbecile, "once they show that almost all the Careers are dead, this place is going to be swarming with other tributes trying to get their share. If we stay here we'll have to fend them off by ourselves, but if we leave and don't burn all of this then they'll have an advantage."

I hadn't even thought of that. Now that Spring has explained this all to me, I actually feel like an imbecile. I carefully separate what's good from what's poisoned and we dig in, gorging ourselves on as much as we can.

"I've been living off of berries and nuts for the past few days," Spring says between mouthfuls of dried fruit, dried meat, and entire loaves of bread. "I found a rancid alligator too, and I almost cooked it up and ate it."

The thought makes me sick, remembering the possibility of what the alligator itself had consumed. "Are there any other dangerous creatures in the swamp?" I ask, taking a chug of water.

"Tons," Spring says. "There are jabberjays" - she shudders - "and loads of tracker jackers. Also these bugs that burrow into your skin and eat you from the inside out, but I've marked the place where they live. And mosquitoes can carry all kinds of diseases, so you don't want to get bit. Poisonous spiders, too, and venomous snakes. There's also quicksand and little caves that are absolutely infested with poison ivy."

"Wow," I say, stunned. I can't believe how oblivious I've been, worrying only about alligators. At any moment I could have waltzed right into quicksand, or been bitten by a spider. "You've gone through all that by yourself?"

"Of course not, I'd be dead," Spring scoffs. "I've seen others, though, and it's not pretty. I've read up on a few things too, but that hasn't helped much."

I'm sure it's helped more than she's letting on, but she doesn't want to reveal too much in case it's against the rules or something, and District Three is punished. So I quickly continue. "What have you been through?"

"The jabberjays," Spring says huskily, her eyes becoming vacant for a moment. I wave my hand in front of her face, claiming her attention. "Oh, yes, and I've seen the tracker jacker nests. I was stung by a few. Was unconscious for over a day."

"What's so bad about the jabberjays?" I ask. Spring doesn't want talk about it; she just warns me that if I ever encounter them, cover my ears and run as fast and as far as I can.

After a few tense moments of silent eating, I change the subject. "So, what kind of name is Spring?"

"What kind of name is Finnick?" she counters.

"A good one," I say, grinning. "Why are you named after a season?"

"I'm not," Spring says. "I'm named after the metal kind of springs. My mother says it's because I was so energetic as a child." She looks around the clearing and sighs. "We better pack up and head out. We want to get as far away from here as possible when they show the faces."

We load our packs with food and drench the remainder of the supplies in flammable fluids that I don't know the names of, but Spring is confident will work. Anything that won't burn and we don't need, we throw in the swamp. Then, Spring lights a match and throws it into the supplies.

The result is instantaneous. Half of the supplies are immediately engulfed in flames, curling and twisting as they burn. We stare at the blackening piles until nearly all of it is a roaring fire, hot on our faces. Finally, Spring nudges me.

"We better get out of here before the others notice," she says, "or else we'll have to fight somebody, and we're in no condition to do that."

The sun is setting by the time we are far enough not to have the light of the giant fire to guide us. Spring doesn't want to give away our position with torches, so she hand me a pair of sunglasses.

"What are these?" I ask, peering at the curiously.

"Night-vision glasses," Spring replies, as if this is obvious. She puts them on her face. "Didn't you use them with the other Careers?"

"No, we all thought they were just regular sunglasses," I say, putting them on. The dark, mysterious swamp suddenly becomes alight with detail. It's amazing, and a lot less spooky. Spring grins at my shocked expression.

"Come on, Pretty Boy, let's go," she urges, continuing deeper into the swamp.

"Pretty Boy," I scoff, following her. "At least I'm not a know-it-all..."

"I heard that."

Apparently, Julianne wasn't the only one with supersonic hearing.

I soon discover that Spring's way of traveling is very different from the Careers'. She uses the branches of the trees to travel, monkey-barring over the deeper parts of the swamp. She leaps from trunk to trunk, balancing on the roots that protrude out of the surface of the muck. It's much faster and less exhausting than trudging through the water, but it takes a lot more agility and skill. I find myself slipping off the roots and breaking the branches more and more often. Spring laughs at me every time I fall into the mud, urging me to keep up. It's quite infuriating.

"You don't have to carry this gigantic trident around," is what I use as my excuse, but Spring doesn't buy it. And the farther into the swamp we go, the deeper the water gets. I don't dare swim, for fear I'll meet the same fate as Bright; or worse, if that's even possible.

"Where will we sleep?" I inquire, looking around the unstable ground of the swamp. Spring doesn't seem to bothered with the question. She rolls her eyes.

"You didn't think that the only solid land was at the Cornucopia, did you?"

Actually, I did, but I don't say that.

The faces are splashed against the cloudy sky when it gets a bit darker. Luster, who Jayce must have killed along with Muriel, is first. I'm actually somewhat saddened by his death; he was really a good person. A bit dim, a tad gullible, but his heart was in the right place. I doubt that he would have killed if he could have avoided it.

Then Jayce and Julianne are shown, followed by Muriel. The sight of their faces doesn't strike me as hard. Two of them tried to kill me, and one had full intentions to do so. I doubt it would have weighed on their consciences at all.

What does strike me is this: I've killed two of those people, Jayce and Julianne. Add that to Ivory, and that makes my kill count three. Three people whose families will never see them again, three people who will never breath or speak or hear or see ever again. Three different views of the world, three lives, I snuffed out like the flame of a candle. They died strictly for my survival, and no other reason.

I look at Spring. How many has she killed? I know she wanted to kill Julianne, and she nearly killed me - but has she successfully killed anyone at all? If she wins, will she leave without any blood on her hands?

The thought makes my insides writhe with anger. Is this her plan for me? To keep me alive so that I can do her dirty work and she can get off without the weight of destroyed lives on her shoulders?

I shake my head to clear it. What am I thinking? That's not Spring's style. I'm becoming paranoid, I guess. Spring will kill if she needs to, but I don't think that she will do so lightly. I think that she is a good companion; for the time being. But she's too smart. I do need to watch her carefully.

We can't walk for very long. Despite the Capitol medicine, we're still sore and tired and we have to rest frequently. We don't run into any other tributes, which is slightly disconcerting. The Capitol will be getting bored of our recovery; unless the others are cooking up something good, the Gamemakers will be forcing us together sometime soon.

Spring stops suddenly and presses a hand to my chest to stop me. She points to something...it looks like a cloth. She gestures to her shirt, which has a tear in it. "Those are the flesh-eating bugs," she says, edging back and around. "You don't want to go that way, trust me."

We stay well away from the area marked against the flesh-eating bugs. Not much later the water seems to be getting shallower, and eventually leads to a small patch of damp but solid earth. "We'll camp here," Spring says, setting down her things. Relief floods through me - until I realize that I'm taking first watch.

Spring catches my expression of dismay and smiles a bit. "Don't worry, once we're fit to climb trees we can sleep up there. But right now with your shoulder and my ribs we can't even think about it."

I nod, not asking about her ribs. I'm guessing they're fractured from one of her fights with Julianne. Spring curls up on the ground, extracting a blanket from the pack and using the bag as a pillow. She's asleep within seconds.

I work on my shoulder, wincing as I peel the bandages off one by one. They're glued on with a mixture of blood and medicine. I use some purified water to rinse it off, grimacing at the wound. It's about a quarter of an inch deep and three inches wide, but luckily it's already began to scab without swelling or turning a sickly shade of green. I'm familiar with infection, as that particular ailment is common in District Four between all the sand and salt and rusted metal ship parts, and it doesn't look like I'm suffering from it. I take the Capitol medicine and smooth it over the spot, sighing as the day's worth of dull, throbbing pain disappears immediately. This stuff is really something else.

I bandage it tightly and inspect my other injuries, which aren't as severe and don't need attention. Then I sit and watch the swamp, fiddling with my trident. It really is a beautiful weapon, balanced to perfection, points lethally sharp, polished and golden. This is something I could never afford on a regular basis, so I wonder how I possibly could have received it in the arena. Spring is right; I have really good sponsors.

I glance over at Spring, curled up peacefully in the blanket like a cat. What can I do to milk their money for all it's worth? Spring is smart, and she responds fairly well to my attempts of flirting with her, but I don't think she'll go much farther than that.

A chilly wind ripples the swamp water and rushes onto our little patch of land, raising goosebumps on my arms. Something's wrong; I can feel it. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. It feels like the very air is charged with electricity.

I slowly stand up, grab my trident, and make my way over to Spring. "Wake up, something's wrong," I whisper, shaking her shoulder. "Spring, wake up."

Before I know it, I'm on the ground and my trident is knocked out of my hand. Spring has me pinned, and there is a knife at my throat. She looks livid. I don't think she notices the ominous feeling in the air.

"What are you doing?" I hiss at her, confounded.

"What were _you_ doing?" she retorts.

"Trying to wake you up!" I say. "Something's wrong. We need to get out of here."

Spring blinks at me, dumbstruck. "Oh," she says, slipping the knife back in her belt. After helping me up, she begins to swiftly pack, finally noticing the strange aura around us. I keep an eye on her the entire time. She didn't honestly think I would sink so low and attack her in her sleep?

"What's the sound?" Spring asks as we're getting ready to depart. I listen hard. It sounds familiar...it sounds exactly like...

"Rain," I say as a drop lands on my hand.

As soon as the word is out of my mouth, the raindrop on my hand starts to tingle painfully, turning the tiny spot of skin on my palm a shiny pink.

"Finnick..." Spring says slowly, staring upward with a horrified expression. "I don't think it's just rain..."

I look up too. The clouds above are thick and swirling like some sort of vortex, inky black and acidic green. I've seen a lot of clouds, a lot of storms, but no hurricane has ever terrified me like the sight of this monstrosity. It is not a thing of nature. It is an artificial weapon, something that the Gamemakers have concocted.

"Get under cover! Now!" I shout over the howling wind, which has evolved from the chilling breeze in just a few moments. The swamp sloshes around us, great waves of mud and water dampening our supplies and creeping up our solid land.

The sky opens up, and acid rain comes pouring down. It riddles holes though the leaves of the trees, burns through our clothes, bites its way into our skin. "Put on the glasses!" I tell Spring, who is hunched over and trying to protect her face. "Don't let it get in your eyes!"

Already my entire body is tingling, burning, spotted with little pink dots. The one on my hand has scabbed over and turned an ugly red-black. Spring has wrapped the blanket around her, but it's already tattered and provides little cover. She's obviously trying to think.

"Get in the swamp!" she finally directs, releasing the blanket and running towards the lurching, riotous water.

I grab her hand before she can make it, gaping at her. "Are you insane? Going into the swamp where the rain is pouring into isn't going to help! We need to stay on land and look for cover!"

"Do you see any?" Spring says. Already her face is speckled with pink dots and stripes of red where's she's tried to wipe the rain away. She looks like some kind of monster, raised from the dead. "If we get in the swamp the water will dilute the acid! And the Gamemakers obviously want us to move! Come on, we have to go now!"

She turns away from me and jumps fearlessly into the swamp. After a moment of hesitation, I jump in after her.

It stings all over, but it's a nullified pain, not the burning agony of the contaminated acid rain. I pop up on the surface, looking around for Spring. The water level has raised drastically; what was once to my waist is now up to my shoulders. I don't see Spring anywhere. Does she even know how to swim well?

"Spring! Where did you go? Spring!"

I can't see anything, even with the glasses on. My eyes burn horrifically, and when I try to wipe the water away I only drag tingling burns across my face. Argh, where is Spring?

"_Finnick_!" Spring's scream penetrates my ears. She's screaming my name out of fear, calling me for help. I can barely hear her over the sound of the uproarious swamp and the thunderous pitter-patter of the rain hitting the water. "Finn - " Her next word is abruptly cut off. Did she go under? I think she's to my left, but I can't be sure. Why did she go into the swamp alone if she can't swim? Spring is supposed to be smart! She should know I could swim for the both of us, as light as she is!

"Spring!" I swim over the water, beating back uprooted saplings and moss that clings to my arms, half blinded by the acidic water, limbs stinging and twitching. My shoulder is on fire; the bandages are unraveling, the numbing medication washing away. I can barely push through the water anymore. Where is she?

_Why are you looking so hard?_ says a little voice inside of my head._ _She's going to die anyway. Why not now? It wouldn't be your fault if you couldn't find her.__

"Finnick, help me! Plea - " Spring's words are cut off again, and I know she's dying. I know she's dangerous, she's clever, but I can't just let her die. Not when she's begging for my help. Gritting my teeth, I turn around and swim towards the sound of her voice.

It's the girl from Five. She's latched on to Spring and won't let go, dragging them both under the water. Spring is trying to beat her off and stay above the surface at the same time, but she's not the best swimmer. I grab Spring and solemnly kick the girl away. She can't swim at all; in fact, it seems as though she is terrified of the water. Something inside of me yearns to help her, but the logical part of me knows that we can't afford any more baggage. So I take Spring and I swim in a random direction, thankful for the sound of the rain blocking out all other noise. I don't hear the girl's cries for help, and I don't hear her cannon shot.

Evidently this incident wasn't enough for the Capitol, because the burning, blinding rain keeps coming down in sheets. The tight, tingling pain of my skin is worse than any sunburn I've ever suffered. My shoulder is now sharp agony with every stroke. Spring does her best to guide me in the direction of land, but she lost her night-vision glasses in the struggle and has to keep her eyes closed most of the time.

I give up on finding land and setting for a thick patch of trees, hoping that the web of branches will be enough to shelter us from the acid rain. The roots are thick enough that we can sit and not be sloshed constantly by water, and the branches form a formidable enough roof.

Spring looks bad. Her skin is laced with black, scabby burns, and is pink and inflamed everywhere else. Her breaths are ragged, and her voice is hoarse. She must have swallowed some water. I'm sure I'm not much better, which is quite concerning; if my looks are the key to sponsorship, what happens when my face is contorted by these chemical burns?

"Thanks for coming back for me," Spring rasps, huddled to herself.

I think of the drowning girl from District Five. "Don't thank me for that."

"I'm sorry," Spring says after a pause. I'm not sure if she's apologizing because I had to kill the girl for her, or for bringing it up.

We sit there in silence for what seems like hours, and the rain keeps coming down. The water level has risen drastically; I wonder if this was part of the plan, to get rid of some of the land and make it easier for scattered tributes to run into each other.

At some point, my arm wraps around Spring's shoulders and she doesn't resist the contact. We're not going to fall in love, the very thought is ludicrous, but we are both in need of comfort that we can only supply to each other. I'm sure that the Capitol will think differently, but I don't really care.

Abruptly, the rain stops coming down. Spring becomes rigid and quickly stands up, scanning the swamp around us with narrowed eyes.

"What?" I ask, holding my trident ready.

"They stopped the rain," Spring says. "That can only mean one thing."

I nod to show that I understand. She's right, of course; the rain was a tool to force us into a fight. So if it stopped, it _can_ only mean one thing.

Another tribute is coming our way.

* * *

><p><strong>Recap: Spring, Finnick, the boy from Six, and the girl from Eleven are all still alive.<strong>

**RIP: the girl from Five**

**Cliffhanger! Tune in next time to see who their opponent shall be! Also, sorry for the delay on this chapter; I've been really busy since school's about to start, so I probably won't be updating as frequently. But don't worry, I assure you that it won't become a ridiculous amount of time. Just a few days extra, that's all.**


	12. The Arena: Day Five

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **F**ive

* * *

><p>"It's Eleanor," Spring says with some surprise. I don't know who Eleanor is; I only know the girl who emerged from the trees as the female tribute from District Eleven. She is a massive beast of a girl, taller than me and twice as broad in the shoulders. She doesn't seem to be injured, but that doesn't surprise me; there is something strangely feral about her, something that suggests she wouldn't have any trouble in a fight. Why haven't I noticed her before, when she is such a huge threat?<p>

Because before the Games, despite her size, she looked kind.

I remember her from the training: always at the plant station, chatting animatedly with the instructor, or tying knots, or starting fires. She never once picked up a weapon. I was sure back then that if her mindset was anything like her childish, clumsy fingers and her slow, fumbled speech, she would be to afraid to even pick up a knife. There is no fear in her demeanor now as she clenches her fist around the heavy spear at her side.

Spring also picks up on this change of character. She is less surprised, more vigilant. Eleanor has spotted us, but has made no attack. Somehow, we know that this will end in a fight. Because there is only four of us left, and no one can really be trusted anymore. No alliances can be made.

"You look like you've had a rough time," Eleanor says, addressing Spring.

"You don't," Spring retorts.

"I have though," Eleanor objects solemnly. Her voice is deep and smooth, nothing like the flustered mumblings of the District Eleven girl I knew before. "You don't know how hungry I am, Spring. I haven't had anything to eat for days."

"That shouldn't be a problem for _you_," Spring says.

"Do you think you two were the only ones the Gamemakers were trying to move along?" Eleanor asks, taking a slow step to the side, which Spring and I mimic. "They eliminated all of the natural food supply in the swamp. I've been searching for days, with no results. You don't know how hungry I am." She eyes our packs with longing.

It's a tense moment, where I think blows are about to be exchanged. My grip tightens on my trident, slick with water and blood. The movement catches Eleanor's attention.

"Quite the expensive little gift, there," she says, nodding at my trident. She narrows her eyes at Spring. "What are you doing, hanging with a Career, Spring? You know they can't be trusted."

"I've been pretty trustworthy so far," I say, a tad offended.

Spring doesn't say anything.

"Let's take him down," Eleanor says, sneering at me. "The two of us, Spring. Let's take down the last Career. He doesn't deserve that shiny weapon. He doesn't deserve anything but death."

Spring shakes her head. "You've got it all wrong. Finnick's okay. A Pretty Boy, but he's still okay. He hasn't betrayed me yet. But you, you've had me fooled from the very beginning. I thought you were innocent."

"You thought I was stupid," Eleanor snorts. "That's why you thought you could ditch me in the middle of the swamp with no provisions. You thought that I was too stupid to find anything to survive. You had planned to let me starve to death, to get me sick from something in the water. You left me there to die, even after I saved you from the jabberjays!"

"That's not how it was," Spring says.

"It was too! You left me there to die! You ran off with my supplies!" Eleanor says, her voice rising with each word. "What were the jabberjays screaming, hm? Was that Mason's death you were hearing, Spring? Well, the Careers killed him! Your best friend! They killed him like he was nothing, and you're helping one right now!"

"Shut up!" Spring shouts, her face screwed up with pain.

And that's when I throw the trident.

Eleanor is fast. She dodges it; it sails past her head and into the water. Spring is frozen with shock, and so am I. My trident was my only weapon besides knives, and Eleanor still has the spear. With her brute strength, there's no telling how well she can throw it.

Spring gets the idea out first.

"Run!"

We wheel around and bolt in the opposite direction, towards our old island, zig-zagging as we go. I hear Eleanor growl and follow, her feet thumping heavily on the ground. The murky water of the swamp slows us down. When we're deep enough, I grab Spring and dive under, swimming as fast as I can while she tries not to drown on my back. Eleanor senses her disadvantage and finally throws the spear.

Spring screams and I feel her let go of my shoulders. I stop and clear water out of my eyes to assess the situation. The spear has sailed entirely through her left arm, leaving a ragged, gaping wound. There's no way that Spring can hold on to me with that kind of injury, which is probably exactly what Eleanor wants.

Eleanor know she's hit her mark; I hear her sloshing towards us. There's little chance that we can beat her great gape, but we have to try.

"Come on," I say holding my arms out to Spring. I know that the logical thing to do is leave her; she injured, can barely stand, and is probably going to die of blood loss if I don't do something soon. The little human part of me that is left is screaming that leaving her here is wrong. Besides Mags, she is the only friend I have ever had.

Spring doesn't have any choice by to let me carry her through the swamp, sticking close to the trees where the ground is more solid and the hanging moss provides cover. Eleanor's splashing is getting closer and closer. I don't know where to go; Spring knows this swamp better than I do, and she is almost unconscious.

I can barely breathe. My whole body is throbbing with pain, no matter how much adrenaline pumps through my blood. Spring, who was once no trouble at all, as suddenly gained fifty pounds. My skin is on fire; my shoulder smarts with every step; I can't breathe.

I come to a screeching halt, my nose inches from a strip of cloth tied to a branch. I can see Eleanor's dark silhouette emerging through the trees, getting closer and closer; there is no way that we can run around the flesh-eating bugs in time.

But perhaps I can trick her into running through them.

I quickly snatch the strip of shirt and take off into a run, staying as close to the bugs as I dare. Eleanor clambers on behind me, wheezing. She must be nearly as weak as I am. I hear her coming closer, and closer, and closer. Her breath is near. I can feel it on the nape of my neck.

A large fist hits me from behind. The air escapes my lungs, leaving me breathless. I loose my balance and fall forward, doing my best not to land on top of Spring. She groans and folds into her arm, gasping at the pain. Eleanor is looming above us, menacing despite her hacking cough.

"Get up," she says harshly to me and Spring, grabbing us by the collar of our shirts and pulling us into a standing position. Spring can't stand on her own. She lurches into me, looking pale and sweating profusely. When I touch her skin, it's cold as ice.

Eleanor observes Spring with distaste. "That spear was dipped in poison," she explains. "That's why you're like this. You're going to die, Spring, no matter what you do. Probably within the next few minutes. What do you have to say? Anything?"

Spring glares at Eleanor through clouded eyes. Her eyelids flutter closed, and her face softens into a look of the purest, sweetest sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Eleanor," she says.

"You should be," Eleanor says mercilessly. "Leaving me in the swamp to die was an underhanded, heartless thing to do. It's no better than a Career. You deserve what you're getting." She takes a spearhead from her pocket, glaring at me. "You're next, Pretty Boy."

When Spring said it, it was teasing. When Eleanor says it, it's an insult.

Spring starts shivering violently. Her face is strained and white as a sheet, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead. She grips my arm tightly; her hand is clammy and cold. It's the same iron grip that Ivory had.

"I'm s-s-sorry, F-Finnick," she manages to get out. Her grip tightens even further on my arm, and she summons the last of her clarity to pierce me with her dark eyes. Her teeth are chattering too much for her to get out anything more than one word, an inaudible whisper, but it's the only thing I need to hear.

"Win."

And she hurls herself at Eleanor.

Eleanor isn't expecting it, and I imagine that Spring's pure determination alone is enough to knock them both down. They tumble over the roots, Spring thrashing and fighting with everything she has, Eleanor doing everything she can to get Spring off of her. They fall into a deep well of murky water, and immediately their splashes aren't the only ones present.

A thousand tiny ripples flicker through the water, converging on the tangled forms of Eleanor and Spring. Eleanor starts screaming, thrashing about the water wildly. Blood seeps out from behind her, where the flesh-eating bugs are entering her body. They wiggle out and around her skin like stubby black serpents, leaving tunnels in their wake. Deranged, she completely forgets Spring and tries to dislodge them, but it is too late. They are peeking out of her mouth, her nose, her ears. She drops into the water, dead or dying, as the bugs pick her bones clean.

Spring is not flailing. I hear a cannon go off, and somehow I know it's her's. I can't take my eyes off her lifeless body, even as the bugs are mutilating it so severely, even as her flesh is being ripped from her skeleton. I wish I could do something to preserve what is left of it, but I know that the risk is not worth it. Her family will not get a body to bury.

I'm not sure if the thought makes me angry or sad. For fear of the lump rising in my throat, I decide on anger. It bubbles up in me, swelling into my fists. I need to punch something. I need to hit something. Now.

The tree is a silent victim, unyielding to my furious fists. I punch it again and again, until my knuckles are stinging from the impact and blood is smeared on the bark. The last of Spring's corpse is the only witness, mocking me with empty eye sockets and a wide skull grin. I know that a hovercraft will not come; there is nothing left to take.

Eventually my anger dies and I'm left with a sense of abandonment. I slide down to the ground and clutch my head, closing my eyes against the pain - the pain of Spring's death, the pain of my own failing body, the pain of spending one more minute in these wretched Games.

And then, my eyes open. There is only one way to get out of this arena, forever. One way to make Spring's death mean something, to fulfill her last wish.

I have to kill the boy from District Six. My last enemy.

The next thing I know, I'm making my way back to the place where Spring and I took refuge from the acid rain, where Eleanor attacked us. My trident has sunken to the bottom of the swamp, but after several minutes of feeling around the mud my fingers brush against it's cool metal surface. I pull it out of the water and rinse it off. It's a symbol of power, a steely resolve that floods from my hand through my entire body.

Then I notice the strong, thin vines sweeping from tree to tree. I gather as many of them as I can and begin tying knot after knot like my life depends on it, as though I will completely fall apart if the net is not there to catch me and hold me together. I don't stop until the net is complete and my fingers are sore and stiff.

By then it is night, and the Capitol seal is blazing in the sky. I don't check to see the faces; I don't need to. I don't want to see their faces ever again. The thought makes my stomach lurch violently.

I want to start looking for the boy from Six now, but I fall right back down when I try to stand. My whole body is throbbing with severe, agonizing pain, and I can only lay there for a few minutes in anguish before I build the will to sit up again. I don't know when I've last eaten, or had anything to drink. My stomach twists again, and my mouth becomes dry.

The pack is soaked, but the packaged food is still good. I take a cautious sip of the water and sigh in relief; none of the rain has infiltrated the canteen. When my stomach is full and the water is gone, I attend to my injuries. The Capitol ointment works fairly well on the burns from the rain, so I rub it all over my body. I get rid of my shirt entirely; it's practically rags, and I'm more likely to get sponsors with my muscles exposed anyway. However, I don't feel comfortable walking around without my pants, no matter the condition, so I keep them.

My shoulder is pretty gross at this point; the acid rain did nothing to help it, and what was once just a large scab is now a huge black blister. I smother it in the last of the Capitol medicine and wrap it up tight in bandages. I wrap my arms and stomach up in bandages too, hoping to preserve the ointment for as long as possible and have some protection for my burns.

I think about hoisting myself into a tree to sleep like Spring had once suggested, but decide that it won't be possible in my condition. Besides, I know that I won't sleep very deeply; I dare Six to try and get me in my slumber. So I lay myself on the ground, using the pack as a pillow, clutching my trident in my hands like I saw Julianne do that first day. It's not so much a precaution as a comfort.

I'm bone tired. It only takes a few minutes for my eyelids to start drooping. As they do, a chilling thought runs through my head: how, exactly, has the boy from Six survived this long?

A shiver goes down my spine, and it isn't from the cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Recap: Finnick and the boy from Six are the last tributes that are still alive.<strong>

**RIP: Spring and Eleanor.**

**Short but very eventful chapter. I'm aware that the time span for the Games is kind of abrupt, but I can't draw it out for much longer with only two people alive. **

**Questions? Comments? Concerns?**


	13. The Arena: Day Six

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **S**ix

* * *

><p>The swamp is eerily still when I wake up.<p>

The water level has returned to its normal state; if anything, it's gotten lower. I can walk easily now without sticking close to the trees. It can only be a sign that the Gamemakers are urging us onward, trying to bring me and the boy from District Six together for the last battle.

I eat a quick breakfast and purify some water, then I'm on my way. My chemical burns have healed remarkably fast thanks to the Capitol medicine, but my skin is still pink and inflamed. It seems as though the water has diluted all of the acid, though, because when I wade into the water of the swamp I feel no prickles of any kind.

The day is hot and humid. I'm sweating in rivulets, and I have to stop for more water twice before the morning is over. The air is suffocating enough without the stifling rays of the sun beating down on my back and the light streams of steam floating from the surface of the water. I might as well be in a sauna.

It's around noon when I have to stop for a third water break and my fifth bathroom break. I flop down on the small island while I wait for the two canteens of water to purify, gazing up at the sky between the leaves of the trees, which are riddled with holes from the acid rain. There are no clouds in the sky now, and the unfiltered sun bakes my damp skin. What I want more than anything is a breeze. Just a small, cool breeze to lessen this unbearable heat just a little bit. This is worse than even the hottest days in District Four, which is saying something.

I wonder how the boy from District Six is holding up. I try to remember what the people from District Six do; I think it's transportation, but I can't be sure. The heat is stalling my thoughts.

Maybe he doesn't have any special abilities. Maybe he's just gotten this far because of pure luck. Though I doubt it. With the Gamemakers watching and calculating your every move, it's hard to accomplish anything because of luck in here.

I lay here for who knows how long, utterly exhausted in every aspect. At one point I think I fall asleep, because worms are burrowing into my skin, leaches munching on my flesh, ripping it from my bone, not heeding to my screams, no one to save me -

I wake up with a gasp, curled up in the fetal position and covered in sweat. Taking great, shuddering breaths, I fumble for the purified water, but my hands are shaking so bad that I can't open the lid to the canteen. I drop it and put my head between my knees, waiting for it - whatever it is - to pass. My heart rate eventually goes down after some time, and I realize just how unstable I am right now. This fact scares me more than the monsters from the nightmare, the possibility of my impending insanity.

I get up, and wince; while I was sleeping, I've gotten a sunburn. Fantastic. Just another injury to add to my ever-growing list of sores.

The water and what remains of the food goes in my pack. I grab my trident and my net, not feeling rejuvinated by my nap but certainly more determined than ever to find District Six. All I want now is to get out of this godforsaken pit. I just want to escape.

Signs of my dream-struggle are apparent on the mud in vague, limb-like shapes, but I don't cover it up. It will give me a checkpoint if I ever come back and, besides, I want District Six to know that I've been here. Surely he is looking for me as I am looking for him. Why not just make it easier for the both of us?

The waterline is definitely receding. The swamp is barely past my knees, and I can see the hazardous things that were beneath the surface; tree roots and large, wiggling fish that don't know what to do now that half of their ecosystem is gone.

A breeze picks up, but it's as hot and unforgiving as the sticky humidity before it. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon; the audience is surely getting bored, unless the boy from District Six has something up his sleeve.

Night settles swiftly on the swamp like a dark wing, the gray shadows encroaching on the territory of the sun in what seems like no time at all. The night is as cold as the day was hot; by the time the first dim stars are blinking down at me from the lavender sky, I am shivering. My breath hangs in a vaporous cloud before descending into nothingness above my head. I wish I hadn't disposed of my ragged shirt, no matter what the condition.

I wonder if this is the Gamemakers' way of bringing me and District Six together. Usually they assume more drastic measures like the acid rain. This is just mild discomfort; are they hoping that one of us starts a fire and alerts the other? But with what dry wood could we accomplish that?

I come to the conclusion that the audience just likes suffering.

Jogging to keep myself warm, I speed through the swamp in search of something - anything - that might give away District Six's location. There's no sign of him - for all I know, I could be the only one left here at all. Maybe there was no tribute from District Six after all, and that's why I can't remember anything about him. Maybe I'm the only one left and they're just waiting to see how long I'll last, endlessly searching for an opponent that doesn't exist.

But that can't be right. Lack of humanity aside, the Capitol would be disappointed if they didn't have a victor. I slow to a walk, wheezing as the cold hair stabs my lungs mercilessly. Everything about these Games have been merciless.

The eruption of music stuns me from my thoughts. It takes me a second to realize that it's the Capitol anthem, and it's coming from all around me. I look up habitually, but it's too soon in the day for the faces to show. What is this?

Claudius Templesmith's voice issues from somewhere in the arena, booming against my ears. He congratulates us for getting this far in the Games. And then he announces a feast that is taking place at nightfall.

Of course, a feast! District Six is probably hungry; I've just run out of food myself. A feast is the perfect way to make sure that we meet and fight.

"And may be odds be ever in your favor!" Claudius concludes. The anthem plays again, and then the arena reverts back to the usual noises of the swamp.

A feast is perfect. District Six will be coming, I know it. And I'm sure he knows I will be coming as well; to him I am just a bloodthirsty Career, living solely for the purpose of the final kill. For all he knows, I've butchered every person in this arena.

The next thing I know, I'm blindly running through the swamp. I need to be the one to get to the Cornucopia first, so that when he comes I will be ready. I can't let the boy from District Six slip through my fingers.

Tonight, the sixty-fifth Hunger Games are going to come to an end.

I've come to know the swamp better, but I still get lost on my way to the Cornucopia. The sun sets swiftly; it's almost as if the Gamemakers are making it so, in their excitement to get to the final battle. The sky is a deep indigo by the time I see glimpses of the golden Cornucopia through the gaps in the trees. The sight of it makes my stomach lurch. This is it. This is the end.

It remember thinking, as I trained for these Games, that they would be my chance for a transformation, a better life. Now it doesn't feel like that's the case. It feels as though my entire life has been leading up to this moment, these Games, the cataclysmic finale to what was a clueless existence. I thought there could be no worse than the conditions I suffered. I was wrong.

One way or another, life as I know it will be over. I will either die tonight, or my life will end and a new one will begin. Finnick Odair, the outcast son of a drunken sailor, will die. I once thought that a new Finnick Odair, a better one, would be born. Now I'm not so sure.

Whatever will happen after tonight, I know I won't give up on living. I promised Spring, and I have to make things better with Mags. Even if it is for the sole purpose of surviving to fulfill those two obligations, I have to emerge from these Games triumphant.

With my resolve in place and my trident in hand, I step out of the trees and into the open.

The boy from District Six is already there on the other side, standing along the borders of the island where the Cornucopia sits, weaponless and vulnerable. He is of average height and weight, with the kind of featureless face that you forget as soon as you see it. He is the very epitome of ordinary.

There is a small round table beside the Cornucopia, covered in white cloth. There is no food on the table. There is no food around the Cornucopia at all.

The boy from District Six meets my gaze, flat brown meeting brilliant green, equally shocked. Neither of us were expecting this, that's for sure. Nothing like this has ever happened throughout the history of the Hunger Games. And then, without further delay, we start running, running as fast as we can, towards the table. Because the person who gets there first is undoubtedly the winner. There is no denying it.

Laying on the table is a single, solitary gun.

Firearms are not allowed in the Hunger Games, as far as I know. There's never been one in an arena, by parachute or otherwise. I suppose there's no official rule against them, but the Games would be a lot less interesting with guns; people would die much too quickly.

I throw my net and it tangles around the boy's feet, but only just so. He stumbles and keeps going, kicking the net away. I don't have a chance of hitting him while we're both running so desperately, and my chances are slim if he's moving that quickly. I throw my trident on the ground and shoot forward with a new burst of speed, my legs burning as they pound through the sand.

We collide in a flurry of fists, desperately dragging each other back and propelling ourselves forward. I'm shrugging him off, my fingers grasping at the table. The cloth slides down and the gun falls into the sand. A groan of frustration escapes my lips - I'm reaching forward - I'm almost there -

The boy from Six crawls forward, grabs me by the hair, and pulls. I swing back and knock him in the jaw; he lets go, but when he sees my fingers reaching for the gun, he kicks sand in my eyes and scrambles up.

There is a decisive click and the feel of cool metal on my forehead. The boy from District Six bares down on me, grinning triumphantly, the gun poised on my head and ready to kill. My eyes are watering, my body is aching, and I know it's over. There is no way I can survive a bullet in the brain. I've failed, I've failed everyone - Mags, Spring, even myself. In the end, no one is going to know my name. I am never going to have an existence.

It is at this crucial moment that I don't care. In fact, I'm happy. Elated. I finally get to escape this arena, this fate that is worse than death. Hysterical laughter is bubbling up my throat and issues through my mouth. It echoes off the Cornucopia and back into my ears; it doesn't sound like me. It sounds like a maniac.

The boy from District Six looks at me in disgust. I'm doubled over with the force of my guffaws, tears streaming from my eyes. I can't breathe, I can't speak, because I'm laughing so hard.

"You're crazy," he spits.

And without another word, he pulls the trigger.

* * *

><p><strong>Short chapter, rather uneventful except for the end. Cliffhanger...!<strong>

**I've been really busy, and unable to find much time to write; sorry, sorry, sorry for the ungodly delay of this chapter. But I also had to deal with writer's block, so I was having some trouble. **

**Thoughts?**


	14. The Arena: Winner

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **W**inner

* * *

><p>I can't help but flinch as the boy from District Six pulls the trigger and the gun emits a loud bang and a cloud of gray smoke. I stop laughing. There's a moment of absolute silence. The boy waits for me to fall. I wait for me to fall.<p>

Nothing happens.

I press my fingers to my forehead, dazed. There is no bullet hole there. No blood gushes out of my head. I am virtually unharmed - well, as unharmed as I was before. It takes a second for the boy and I to process this, but we finally come to the same conclusion at the exact same time: the gun is a fake, a decoy designed to bring us together for the final battle. An epic twist for the audience.

That's when the boy from District Six drops the gun and starts running as fast as he can towards the swamp. He knows there's no way he can beat me in a fair fight. Running and regrouping is his best bet for survival.

I run after him and tackle him to the ground. We tumble into the sand, blindly punching each other as hard as we can. His fists don't cause a lot of damage to me, but with his frantic squirming he eventually slips away. Nursing a bloody nose and clutching his side, he bolts once again towards the swamp.

The net is an arm's length away. I slide across the sand and grab it, arcing it over my head and watching as it sails towards the boy's retreating figure. It traps him and he falls to the ground, entirely tangled. By the time he's squirmed his way out of it, I'm looming over him with my trident poised for the kill.

It's just a fluid movement of muscle, a flash of metal in the moonlight. It's so easy that I could have been striking a sea creature instead of another human being. I don't really think about it until it's finally over and the dead body of the boy from District Six is laying at my feet. I don't even know his name.

What was on my mind, when my trident severed his life? Two seconds after the fact, I can't even remember. It wasn't mercy, or defense, or even some kind of animal instinct driving me to murder. I can't remember why I killed the boy from District Six.

Something inside of me shuts down as music explodes in my ears and I'm immobilized. I'm met by several people in white lab coats, ordering me to stay calm and sit down on the small cot positioned in the corner of the hovercraft. They flinch when I walk past them to sit, as if they expected me to lunge at them. They treat me like some kind of wild animal when they inspect my damaged body, speaking softly and making no sudden movements. Once nurse drops a metal tray, and you would have thought that she'd committed a capital crime by the seething looks her colleagues give her. Then they turn back to me, bracing themselves for a meltdown, and get back to work when they realize that one isn't going to come.

After everything is temporarily fixed, they leave me alone. I stare at the blank white ceiling of the hovercraft for who knows how long. It occurs to me briefly that I have actually won the 65th Hunger Games, that I have successfully survived in an arena brimming with twenty-three other kids who wanted to kill me, and that I will be rich and famous when I return home. It also occurs to me that I have intentionally killed three people, and I could probably take credit for more if I wanted to. That's when I stop thinking entirely. I just close my eyes.

When I open them, it's because a nurse comes in to offer me food. I eat it mechanically; it all tastes suspiciously like brackish water. Only a few minutes after it's been consumed, it comes right back up. I'm moved to a different bed and offered no more food. I get an IV in my arm.

This victory is nothing like I thought it would be. I don't feel like a winner at all. I'm not excited about the money I'll be getting, or that people will finally know my name. I'm not even happy that I'm alive. I would rather be dead. I wish that the gun hadn't been a decoy, and that the boy from District Six had killed me.

Suddenly, that doesn't seem so funny anymore.

I cling to the hope that it will all be okay when I get home. I'll grow my hair out and wear ratty clothes. I'll ignore my money and my big house in Victor's Village and I'll live on a boat with my father, cleaning up his spew and broken bottles and enjoy being a nobody. Once I get home, everything will be the way it should be.

I close my eyes again, this time until the end of the ride. Once I get home, everything will be the way it should be. Everything will be the way it should be.

Right. As if anything is ever that easy.

* * *

><p><strong>Short chapter, and I have a feeling that you guys were probably expecting the gun to be a decoy. But think of the effect it would have had on the audience! Imagine if you were a Capitolite on the edge of your seat, expecting this kid to blow out another kid's brains with this alien firearm, and then suddenly the tables have turned and the kid you thought was going to die actually survives! Can you imagine the reactions Finnick's going to get?<strong>

**The 65th Hunger Games are just about over; now all that's left is the interviews and his arrival home. What could possibly go wrong?**


	15. The Capitol: The Beginning

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**he **B**eginning

* * *

><p>The next few days pass by in a blur.<p>

I doze in and out of consciousness as I recover in one of the Capitol hospitals. They don't bother to keep me bound or sedated; I'm completely compliant. I don't see any reason not to be. The quicker I get out of here, the better. Besides, the nurses are really nice to me.

After my full recovery, I attend the second interviews during which I am crowned victor and I watch the reviews while answering questions. I have a feeling that if it wasn't for the constant gore on the screen and for Caesar Flickerman's cheer, the interviews would be nothing short of an interrogation. That's what they feel like to me, anyway. It doesn't matter; they're as much of a blur as my recovery.

Cybele and Faustus are happy to see me, and they don't work on me for very long. I don't see Aurora at all. Taurus's appearance is breif and stiff. But my costume is decent, so I don't question it.

I meet up with Mags before the interviews. I don't have to say anything in order to get it through to her that I'm sorry for my previous behavior, which seems irrational and childish to me now. She doesn't have to say anything to make me understand that she's forgiven me. Before I go onstage, she slips something into my hand: her locket. I keep it in my fist the entire time. I think it's the only thing that keeps me from falling apart on national television.

Three grueling hours later, I'm marching off the stage with the locket soft and warm in my hand, making a beeline for back stage where Mags is waiting. We'll spend one more night here in the Capitol, and then we'll scrape Nath out of whatever alley he's passed out drunk in and we'll go home.

Mags looks grim when I find her. She's talking to a woman with artificially silver hair. The woman smiles warmly at me when she catches my eye.

"Mr. Odair, just the man I was looking for," she says. "I'm a representative of President Snow, and he would like to speak to you in private."

Mags gives me a look that says I can't afford to decline the offer, no matter how much I wish to do so. It is not an invitation. It is mandatory. So I nod to the silver-haired woman and she cheerfully leads me away from the safety of Mags's supervision and into the dressing rooms backstage. There is a door that is surrounded by Peacekeepers in the very back. The woman elbows her way through. The door says "P. Snow."

The woman opens it, but the President is nowhere in sight. "He'll arrive momentarily," she says. "If you need anything, just call one of the Avoxes and they'll attend to you."

She leaves, and I'm alone in the room.

Immediately I look around. It's exceedingly plush, probably more so than is required for a two-hour prep. If that is even what the President got. I know that's how long I needed to get ready. There seems to be little in the way of potentially dangerous items. Namely, ones that could be used as weapons. Not that it really matters; if the President wanted to kill me, there would be no need to him to do it here, on his own. He has people for that.

Which begs the question: what does the President want to talk to me about? Surely a "private meeting" after the interviews isn't customary. The look on Mags's face sure said it isn't. I debate for a while on how to handle myself with the President in attendance, and I finally decide on the charade I've been working since the Games started: charismatic.

The door opens and the President walks in, flanked by two Peacekeepers. "Please, gentleman, there is no need," he says, ushering them back outside. "I'm sure Mr. Odair means me no harm, am I right?"

I give him a cordial smile. "Please, call me Finnick."

"You see? Let us talk in peace. Oh, and ask someone to bring in some refreshments. I'm sure that today's festivities have been as grueling on Finnick as they have been on me."

Festivities. Right.

He closes the door and turns to look at me, evaluating me like a lobster he's ready to throw in a pot of boiling water and eat for supper. I blink back at him for a moment, allowing him some time to settle, then stick out a hand for him to shake. "How have you been this lovely day, Mr. President?"

"Fine, thank you," he replies, hardly masking his amusement as he shakes my hand with a firm, clammy grip. "Please, sit down. We have very important matters to discuss."

He leads me over to a small table with two comfy chairs. Now that he's out of the color-draining lights of the stage, I can see just how heavy-handed his stylists were with his makeup. The excessive eyeliner brings out the chilly edge in his snake-like eyes.

"I'm sure that you are eager to be heading back home," he begins.

"Not at all," I lie, shooting him another smile. "I love it here in the Capitol. This whole thing has been quite an experience for me."

"Quite," the President says, his mouth twitching upward. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Finnick. I have a feeling that you will be visiting the Capitol quite frequently over the duration of the next few years."

"Right, for mentoring."

"Amongst other things. But let's not get into that now." Other things? What other things could he be talking about? The President does not give me much time to wonder; he plows on with the conversation.

"You are a very rare specimen, Finnick," he continues, lacing his fingers together as he appraises me with his analytical, calculating gaze. "Smart. Charming. Handsome. And quite young. In fact, I believe that you've just broken the record for the youngest victor in Hunger Games history. Someone with your circumstances has a very prosperous future ahead of them, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course," I say. "At least, to those who choose take advantage of it."

"Oh, but I can tell you're one of those people, Finnick," says the President. I grip the edge of the table under the pressure of his cold stare. The passive-aggressive tone of this meeting makes my stomach churn.

"I guess."

There's a knock on the door, and an Avox clad in white, carrying a tray of snacks and drinks, steps into the room. She sets the tray down and pops open the bottle of wine, her curtain of caramel hair falling over her shoulder.

I can only stare.

"But of course," the President continues, as if nothing is amiss, "you have to be careful not to do anything now that might effect those opportunities in the future. Would you like anything to drink, Finnick?"

Aurora glances at me silently, her face emotionless but for the tears gathering in her eyes. The diamonds under her eye had been ripped out, leaving three angry red scabs in their wake. But I know that the diamonds were not the only thing removed from her body.

I shake my head, and she leaves. The President is carefully watching me over the rim of his goblet. When I don't say anything regarding Aurora's new occupation, he gestures to the tray. "Please, eat something."

I don't touch the food. President Snow smiles, and I can tell he knows I've received his message. Because Aurora didn't really do anything wrong; there is no way that she committed a terrible crime over the duration of my absence. Her appearance here only proves that her being an Avox had something to do with me. And what sets Aurora apart from the rest of my stylists?

I kissed her.

"Not hungry, then? Disappointing. This is my favorite dish." The President takes a glazed pastry from the tray. I get a overpowering whiff of the rose tucked into the pocket of his jacket; it makes me dizzy.

The President finishes his snack in silence. My mind is going a mile a minute. What is it that the President has in store for me? What are these "opportunites" he keeps bringing up? I thought that, once the Games were over, everything was going to end. I could go back to my life and just live the rest of it in peace.

Of course, now that I think about it, I was a fool to believe that I would just be left alone. I know from the broadcasts of the Hunger Games that the victors are poked and prodded just as much as the tributes; only, they're used to it. After they win, they have to do the Victory Tour. And then, after that, mentoring. They never live their life in peace. The Capitol is making them relive the Games, over and over, haunting them until they are finally allowed to die.

President Snow brushes crumbs from his pants, sliding back in his chair. "It was a pleasure talking to you, Finnick," he says, standing up. "I'll see you at your Victory Tour. Until then, please enjoy your little vacation and think about what I've said."

It takes enormous self-discipline to screw my face into something that I hope looks like a smile. "Don't worry about that, President Snow. I certainly will be."

With that he leaves, but I don't dare drop my act. Aurora is proof that the President has eyes and ears everywhere. There is no place where I can relax or unwind, let myself out from hiding. Especially not in the Capitol.

I close my eyes for a second and let my breath out. Then I stand and make my way out of the room, to Mags, to the train, and to District Four. The place that's no longer a home, not when the President is watching my every move until the day he springs his expectations on me. What these are I've yet to figure out, but I'm sure I won't like whatever he wants. I'm not going to think about it. I can't take it if I think about it.

A pain in my fist brings me back to reality. It's Mags's locket, and I've gripped it so hard that the sharp edges have bit into my palm. Blood smears the tarnished silver, which is so warm by this point that it's malleable.

Mags is suddenly there in front of me, putting her hand in my bloody one. I look into her dark green eyes and I see empathy. I know I'm not completely alone. Nath stands behind her, looking as though he's just been dragged out of bed, and I suddenly understand his desire to waste away. Sometimes blissful nothing is better than the real world. But after seeing so much death, after going through so much to survive, it's hard to just take your own life.

"Let's go home, kid," he says, jabbing a thumb at the exit. I nod and allow Mags to tug me away from the stage and out into the bright Capitol day. In a few hours, we will be in District Four. The sense of relief is gone, replaced by cold, heavy dread.

Getting to District Four is not the end. It is only the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry it took so long to update! Midterms :(<strong>

**The next chapter will be the end of the Trident Games, and I will be taking a short hiatus before starting the second part of the story, the Sea Glass Games. That will be the paraquel to my other story, Sea Glass (Annie's Games), so if you haven't read it then I suggest you do. I might also throw in a chapter concerning Johanna's victory, but we'll see.**

**I ask for feedback, as always.**


	16. District Four: Survival

**PART ONE: The Trident Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **S**urvival

* * *

><p>I forgot how fresh the ocean breeze is, and how the sun of an endless summer feels on my face. I forgot how relaxing the sound of the waves can be, how the sand crunches beneath my shoes. I forgot what home feels like.<p>

There's no congratulatory crowd waiting for us when we arrive to District Four, for which I'm glad. In my opinion, this is no time for celebration. Mags and Nath escort me out of the train station and on the path to town, where surely there will be people. I'm not sure if I'm ready to handle that yet, but I don't say anything.

I don't have to. Mags seems to understand. We take the long route to Victor's Village, around the town, avoiding all the people. I don't have to see a single soul. Nath complains, but I think it's simply to supply some conversation. Mags and I are silent.

My house in the Village is huge, probably five times the size of the little cabin of the boat I've spent my life living in. I wonder what my father will think of it. I wonder what he'll do, now that we have all this money. Like I even have to wonder.

Mags wants to introduce me to the others, but I'm not up to it. I go for a walk instead. I tell her I need some time alone, which is true. The clouds hover low in the sky, making it the flat, blank kind of gray that gives everything a bland look. The ocean reflects it too, going from the jewel-colored hues of blue and green that I remember so well to a temperate iron color. It suits my mood.

I kick off my shoes and socks and roll up my pants. The water is icy cold on my skin to the point of pain, raising gooseflesh on my legs. I like it. It feels real, clenses my head. It brings me back to where I'm supposed to be.

I walk along the beach for a while, not thinking about anything but the tingling numb feeling in my feet and the sand between my toes. I wish that my thoughts could be this simple all the time.

People pass me occasionally. They gawk and stare and they sometimes point, but I don't pay them any attention. They're all dressed in gray - funeral colors. It's as if all of District Four is mourning. I wonder who died, but I don't ask anybody. They don't seem inclined to tell me either.

When I get tired of walking, I flop down on the sand and stare at the dull sky. The sand is warm and soft, like a bed. I could go to sleep here. I close my eyes.

"Finnick?"

When I open my eyes, the sky is no longer in my line of sight. Instead it's a man's face; he's familiar, though I've never seen him so cleanshaven or sober. He's one of my father's drinking buddies, Marshal Cork. Cork's one of the better ones, I guess. He's faithful to his wife and he takes care of his daughter. He's the kind of guy who drags my father home when he's too drunk to walk. At least, those are the conditions under which I'm used to seeing him.

"Hello, Mr. Cork."

Cork looks uncomfortable. "Hello. How...um, how are you?"

I shrug. That's the most honest answer I can give at the moment.

"That's good, I suppose. What're you doing?"

"Laying here, relaxing. I'm getting ready to go find Dad. You seen him around?"

Cork frowns at me for a second, then he sighs and sits down. "No one's told you the news." It's not a question. I feel my stomach lurch.

"What news?"

"Finnick, your father, he's...he's passed on."

Now that I think about it, I should have seen it coming. The people's gray attire, their evading me, the fact that there wasn't a huge celebratory crowd at the train station. But it still takes me by surprise. And it's still like a hard blow to the chest. I don't know why it should be. It's not like I ever really cared about my sorry, drunken father.

Did I?

"How?" That's the only thing I can manage to get out.

Cork tugs at his earlobe. "He...committed suicide."

Another surprisingly painful blow. It takes me a second to process it, actually. My father, who has been hanging so desperately to his thread of survival, letting go? No, it doesn't make any sense.

"He left a note. We left it with one of the victors to give to you with an explanation. We thought that's where you would go first." Cork pauses and lets it sink in for a second. "I'm...I'm so sorry, Finnick. He cared about you a lot more than he showed, I swear it."

"What about the boat?" I ask.

More bad news. "They took it to pay for his drinking costs. You of all people know how deep in debt he was."

"Who took it? Marina?" She is the bartender at my father's favorite hang-out, a lovely woman with an eye for rich and vulnerable men. I've always despised her. "Where can I buy it back?"

"The boat was in no condition to sell or sail," Cork continues, sounding thoroughly depressed now. "It's amazing it stayed afloat for so long with all the damages to it. There was nothing we could do but take it apart and use what we could for scrap metal and things."

The place where I grew up. Gone. My father. Gone. I remember thinking about the new life I wanted before the Games, but even then I didn't think that I would start with a such clean slate. Now that I just want everything back to normal, or as normal as it can get, everything from my past life is vanishing. With it comes a horrible realization: I'm not Finnick Odair anymore. I thought I would know by now who would replace old Finnick Odair. I thought I would know what to draw on this blank canvas.

I don't. I have no idea.

The walls are closing in on me, suppressing me, confining me. I can't breathe. Who am I, anyway? I hear Cork saying my name, still expressing his condolences, but I can't make out a word he's saying. The cold water laps at me feet; it's so cold, it feels like fire on my skin. If I lay here, will the waves drag me out to sea, douse me in their molten cold?

When I look, Marshal Cork isn't there anymore. Did he leave because I didn't say anything? How long did he stay and talk to me? I see another figure making her way down the beach, running. It's Mags. She shouldn't be running. Not at her age. It's bad for her.

She stops when she gets to me, huffing and puffing. She has a piece of paper in clasped in her hand. I know what it is. I don't want to read it.

Mags sits down beside me, her breath still coming fast. She puts the note in my hands. Automatically, I flip it open and see my father's scrawl. It's a page. A single page. I skim through it, but it takes me two, three more times before I absorb the information.

_It's over for me. There's nothing for me here anymore. Finnick's gone to the arena, and he's never coming back. Why does it matter anymore? Who do I have to live for? I'll never see my son again. I never got to say good bye. I can't repair that mistake. I'll never see him again. There's no point anymore._

He was drunk when he wrote this, I think bitterly. Even in the very end, my father was in a haze of alcohol. And look where it's gotten him.

I never got to say good bye either.

The note slips from my fingers. Mags makes an attempt to catch it, but she's too late; the wind carries it away and out into the water. I don't care. It doesn't matter.

_Finnick's gone to the arena, and he's never coming back. _My father had no faith in me, and that is why he took his own life. Well, I did what I wanted to do: I proved him wrong. I proved everyone wrong. But who's here to acknowledge that? Who's here to accept defeat? To declare me winner?

Mags wraps her arms around me and hugs me close. She probably expects me to cry. I don't. I won't. I wish that that Hunger Games never happened. I wish that I could just be Finnick again. But I know that Finnick is over. His boat is gone and his family is gone. All that remains of my life is directly connected to the Hunger Games. There's no avoiding it anymore. It's here to stay.

I shrug Mags off and stand up with a kind of cold resolve, offering her a hand. "What now?" she asks as we walk back to the Village.

"I meet the others today," I say. "Tomorrow, I buy some furniture and stuff for my house. Food, and clothes too. I want a boat, but that can wait for a while. I'll spread the wealth and try to pull myself together before the Victory Tour. I want to prepare myself for what's to come."

Mags pauses before she nods, staring at me with a kind of pity. "There's worse to come. But better, too. You learn to enjoy little things."

"Yeah. The little things."

"I hate to see you grow up so fast," she says after another pause. "I wish you had more time to be a kid. Fourteen is too young to deal with all this."

I shrug. "I'll survive, Mags. That's what this is all about, anyway. Survival."

Mags puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a long, hard stare. She shakes her head and turns away, continuing to walk down the beach. "Someday you'll find something better than that. You won't surivive for nothing. You'll live for something. Even if you die for it."

I don't really understand what she means until five years later, when I mentor a girl and a boy for the 70th Hunger Games. And after five years of mentoring, after watching ten kids die in the arena, I finally bring one tribute home alive.

I don't really understand until I meet Annie.

* * *

><p><strong>And that, ladies and gentleman, is the end of Part One! Next we will skip forward five years, to the 70th Hunger Games, and watch as Finnick struggles to get Annie home alive. It will be the Part Two: The Sea Glass Games. Part Two is based off of my other story, <em>Sea Glass (Annie's Games)<em>, so it will directly correspond with the events that take place in that story. **

**You don't have to read _Sea Glass_, but I will be going on a brief hiatus before I start Part Two, so it can keep you occupied if you haven't already read it. I'll be back sometime around Christmas, so don't worry; I'm not abandoning the story. I just need some time to brainstorm and take a little vacation.**

**Until then, make sure you tell me what you think!**


	17. AG: District Four: The Reaping

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **R**eaping

* * *

><p>There are a few memories that stand out very clearly in my mind. Most of them are bad. Most of them have to do with the Hunger Games.<p>

I remember my Victory Tour, standing alone on stage and staring into the eyes of the people whose children I have killed. I remember my first year as a mentor at age fifteen, and watching Johanna Mason kill both of my tributes. I remember screaming at her when I saw her at the proceeding Victory Tour, and promising myself that I would never forgive her. I remember the day that Johanna became my best friend. I also remember all ten faces of the kids I've mentored since then, all of whom have been brutally murdered in the arena.

But once a year there is a day that I literally relive. When I step on stage and look out onto the square of District Four, I have to remind myself it's not my time. It's theirs. The two kids that will stand before me, the two kids I will evaluate, they are going into the arena. Not me.

It's their reaping day. Not mine.

Augustina isn't our Capitol representative anymore. She suddenly stopped three years ago, and was replaced with a woman named Ophelia Trumblen. We never found out why. I never bothered to ask. My guess is that they thought she was getting too old, though I never noticed her aging.

Ophelia is a lot like Augustina. It's not too drastic of a change, honestly. She still speaks with a high Capitol accent, and she still is obsessed with manners and etiquette and all that jazz. She still chirps, "Ladies first!" and skips over to the girls' reaping pool as though it's just one big celebration.

We're all _so_ enthusiastic here in the humble land of District Four. Just a bunch of party animals.

I take Mags's hand. The girls' drawing is always the hardest for her, because the girls more often than not look like her dead sister, Candra. Ophelia thrusts her hand in and fumbles around before producing a slip of paper. She opens it with excruciating slowness, making sure it's all nice and neat before reading the name aloud.

"Annie Cresta."

No one familiar to me. After a bit of a pause a girl who looks to be about sixteen or seventeen steps onto the stage. She has long waves of brown hair that fall down her back, and her face is as green as her dress. But her dress is a prettier shade.

Ophelia skips over to the boys' pool and takes out a name. She reads it. Then a flash of uncertainty flickers across her face, and she reads it again. And then she reads it aloud.

"Quincy Cresta."

Whoa. A man who can only be Annie Cresta's brother walks on stage, looking as pale as his sister is green. Of course, someone will volunteer to take his place. There are those here in District Four who train for the Hunger Games their entire lives; someone must have the decency to spare them.

We wait.

And wait.

Nobody raises their hand.

Ophelia and Mayor Grubstein plow on with the festivities. Quincy Cresta's face is now a shade of green that can't be healthy. I have the feeling that he was hoping somebody would volunteer for him or his sister, too, but the frightening reality that that's not going to happen is finally hitting all of us. I pity the both of them. But I pity myself too. Mentoring friends isn't easy, so I guess training siblings to kill each other is going to be even more difficult. A glance at Mags tells me that she's thinking the exact same thing.

Annie and Quincy shake hands, and then the Peacekeepers are taking them into custody. The crowd is eerily silent even after we mentors exit the stage. It sends chills up my spine. I don't like the quiet.

"So?" I ask in general, turning to the rest of the mentors as we circle around back to Victors Village. "Who's mentoring this year?"

Constance Truman snorts loudly and orders Ore Sumy to continue to push her wheelchair down the path. Everyone knows she's not in any condition to travel, and Ore is too tenderhearted to deal with what is sure to be a particularly difficult Hunger Games.

Nath puts his hand up immediately, which is no surprise even though he hasn't mentored a single tribute since my victory. But then again, none of the female tributes have been particularly pretty like Annie.

Haro Mutch clears his throat. "Sorry, guys, I'm not up to it this year." Which is what he says every year. Haro isn't unkind, but he won't spare others if it's at his own risk. He's willing to send us up to the Capitol as long as he doesn't have to go.

It doesn't matter, really. We all know who the male mentor has to be.

"Right," I sigh, giving Nath a look. The rules say that if a third victor volunteers to mentor, they're allowed to. Great, because Nath is _exactly_ who I want to deal with on top of two siblings. "Looks like there's three of us this year."

Mags nods resolutely and hobbles in the direction of the train station. We won't be in need of anything from our homes while we're in the Capitol. Watching her stiff gait, I wish that girl would win. Mags needs a break. These past five years have caught up with her: it shows in her creaky joints caused by arthritis and the wrinkles etched into her face from her many emotions. She had a stroke last year that scared me to death. Now she can barely speak. But it doesn't bother me; Mags never had to talk to get her point across.

The three of us get on the train before the Cresta siblings. Their parents are probably visiting them. Their friends and whatever family they might have, too. I've learned to stop feeling envious of tributes in moments like this, when I think about where they're going and how terrified they must feel.

I learned more about my father's death once I was ready for it. He tied weights to his ankles and jumped into the ocean. Cremation is the traditional way to send someone off in District Four, but this time there was no body to burn. Instead all of District Four wore gray mourning clothes until I arrived to give a speech. I never did. It's not that I couldn't find the words; there was just nothing to say.

The train lurches into motion, shocking me out of my reverie. The tributes must finally be aboard. We'll give them some time to process everything, as is customary, and then we'll officially assess them when dinner comes along. As for right now, there is nothing to do but wait.

I lean my head back on the wall, watching District Four whiz by out the window. Soon my sunny beaches and roaring waves will be gone and replaced by tall buildings and adoring fans. A lot of adoring fans.

Cold dread grips my stomach, tying it into complicated knots that will take many months to untangle after everything is all over. And that's how I know that the 70th Hunger Games have really begun.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy New Year! A new year, a new milestone in Finnick's life. This is a short chapter, but they'll gradually get longer as the story goes on.<strong>

**Part Two: The Sea Glass Games is based on the events in my previous story, obviously entitled _Sea Glass_. The events in Part Two will directly correlate with that story; the only difference is that this is in Finnick's POV, while _Sea Glass_ was Annie's POV. If you have any questions, please ask in a review and I'll message you back. Or you can message me directly; whatever works.**

**Again, Happy New Year!**


	18. AG: The Train: Planning

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **T**rain - **P**lanning

* * *

><p>This is going to be harder than I thought.<p>

Quincy comes in with his arm draped protectively over Annie's shoulder, a sign of possession and security that tells me she's his baby sister. His display of brotherly affection tells me that he wants her safe. AKA, alive.

Annie's eyes are not bloodshot. I wish they were. You cry when you know you are in jeopardy of losing someone you love; you don't when you resolve to help that person. This also means she's stubborn. Girls are generally more emotional by biological makeup, so she must have had to fight back the tears. Will power. Stubbornness. Love for her brother.

This is a disaster. The Hunger Games are best suited for cutthroat, violent, spiteful duos. The last thing I need are a couple of martyrs.

"Nice of you to join us," I greet. Inevitably I will be the spokesperson for the mentors. People generally respond better to me than they do to Nath, and hardly anyone can understand a word that comes out of Mags's mouth. Still, despite my flawless facade of hospitality, Quincy and Annie give me identical skeptical looks. A normal retort from the males, but could it be that Annie doesn't like me? Doesn't trust me, even?

At least she's a good judge of character.

They sit down and begin to eat. I have to keep myself from laughing when they catch the scent of the food and start shoveling it into their mouths. There isn't much talk to go around. Most of it's supplied by Ophelia, while the rest of us are too busy stuffing our faces or contemplating the two tributes. Sitting at the table, their cheeks puffed out with food, they don't exactly look lethal. But then again, I should definitely know better than to judge a book by its cover.

We watch the recaps after Quincy and Annie stop feeling nauseous every time they stand up. There are a few beefy guys, and some vicious-looking girls (a quick glance at Annie tells me she's never going to fit in that category), but no one catches my attention until they call Arthor Shert is called forth to be the District Five tribute. I have to bite my tongue to keep from swearing. Now we have a victor's son to add to the pot.

Ophelia seems to be thinking the same. "I can't believe Arthor was drawn." Like she feels sorry for him, the poor soul. I don't. I remember his father's Hunger Games: Sherman Shert was ruthless, deadly, and murderous. No doubt he trained his son to be the same way.

"The boy from Five? Why? Who is he?" Quincy is rattling off questions faster than we can answer them. He wants to know as much about the competition as possible. Smart.

"He's the son of a past victor," I explain nonchalantly. "Dead, now. Alcoholic."

"Is he dangerous?"

Maybe not as smart as I thought. "Do you even have to ask? His father knew seven different ways to sever a spine."

More silence. I've never been good at pep-talks or encouragement; that's always been Mags's thing. I'm the guy who gets things done. So I suppose I better get started. "So what about you two?" I ask. "What can you do?"

They look at each other. "We work on a fishing boat," Annie says. Yeah, because that tells me everything I need to know.

Actually, it tells me a lot. It tells me that they've never had any professional training. Bad. But they know how to work with knives and nets. Good. Play to the strengths.

"Um...Quincy's pretty handy with a spear..." Annie rambles on. Spear. There will be a lot of those in the arena. Check.

Annie has yet to say anything about herself. Which is frustrating on the account that this means she's absorbed with her brother's welfare, and that I still know nothing about her. I need to know as much as I can if one of them is getting out alive. I still don't know which one yet.

There's always one sure-fire way to get a girl to talk.

"What about you, Annie?" I unleash my eyes on her at full capacity, since she's already shown some resistance. That gets her attention. Her shoulders go rigid and she turns lightly pink. Her tongue stalls for a second, then she answers.

"I...I don't know. I guess I'm okay with a knife. I'm good with traps. Nets and things."

Okay with a knife. Nets and things. Awesome. "Well, I can tell you what you shouldn't do. You shouldn't join the Careers. Normally Four tributes do this, myself included, but you guys..." I trail off and look them up and down. "Yeah, you definitely shouldn't."

"Why?" Annie's cheeks are flushed with anger this time, not girlish folly.

I decide not to lie to her. "Because they would squash you like a bug." I remember my time with the Careers, and how I was almost killed by Julianne. My circumstances were much different. I was only concerned with myself. "Both of you."

Love has no place in Hunger Games, much less the Careers, I almost say. Almost.

"We weren't planning on joining them anyway," Quincy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I want to die with some dignity."

Here we go.

"You're not dying."

"Right. I'll keep that in mind."

Annie opens her mouth to respond, but I beat her to it. "See, _this_ isn't going to work," I say, pointing my finger at the two of them. "Maybe for the crowd, but you guys need to accept the fact that one or both of you isn't going to make it out of this alive. And you need to decide now, or I'm going to decide for you."

I know I've said it too bluntly, but I don't have the time or patience for this stuff. Mags gives me a look of disapproval, and Annie's jaw has hit the floor. I guess she's used to propriety which, like love, doesn't have any place in the Hunger Games.

Only Quincy seems able to cooperate. "Annie. I want her to live."

"No! Think about our parents. About Tammy. What would they do if you..." Annie trails off, incapable of saying the words. Idly I wonder who Tammy is, but I think that's a question for later.

"You're my little sister! I'm not going to let you die! And the others...I said goodbye to them already."

"Yes, and you can say hello again when you get back to District Four!" Annie turns on her heel and stomps out of the room like a child throwing a tantrum. She looks right at me before she does, and I find myself on the reverse end of an intense stare. Only her gaze has nothing to do with pretty eye color; it's the raw emotion that leaves me tongue-tied. "Keep him alive, or District Four won't have a victor this year!"

Quincy puts his head in his hands as her footsteps recede down the car and the door to her compartment slams shut. "She wouldn't do that," he mumbles, running his hands down his face. "She'll be concerned about our parents. Focus your attention on her, alright? Just...please."

"You?" Mags warbles, looking at me for translation.

"We're not miracle workers, Quincy," I say once I finally regain control of my speech. "If, for some reason, we can't get her out alive...well, we still need a victor if we can get one."

"I'll do my best to win," Quincy concedes, looking very solemn. "I mean it. But if I catch any hint that you're trying to help me rather than her..."

"Deal," I say. "We'll tell her the opposite, and she won't suspect a thing. Now, go get some rest. Trust me, you'll need it."

Quincy nods and stands up. "Should I go talk to her?"

"I think you're the last person she wants to see right now," Nath snorts, earning him a sharp scowl from Quincy.

"Don't worry, we'll tell her later. It would make sense if she thinks that we're lying to you about keeping her alive, when actually we're lying to her," I say, confusing even myself.

Quincy stalls, frowning, then nods again. "Right..."

When he's out of the room, I stretch and yawn. "So, we've got 'em right where we want 'em. Who do you think's got the best chance of winning?"

"The boy. He's stronger, probably knows more about weapons, and he's smarter," Nath says. "Though I have to say, he's kind of gullible. Annie's got him on that account."

Figures he'd know Annie's name before he learned Quincy's.

Mags nods in ascent. I agree too, Quincy has the better shot at winning. I've learned by now that that doesn't necessarily mean we'll focus all of our efforts on him, but we'll do our best to make sure that District Four has a winner. Sometimes that means choosing one tribute in favor of the other. My guess is that they'll stay together for most of the Game, anyway.

As we make our way to our compartments for bed, Nath steps toward Annie's door. Quickly, I block his path. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I was just going to share the good news with her," Nath replies with a slimy grin. "That we've chosen Quincy. She has to know, remember?"

"I'll tell her. You go on and gets some rest."

"No, no, don't trouble yourself."

I put a firm hand on his shoulder, applying just enough pressure for it to hurt. "Please," I hiss under my breath. "I insist."

Nath knows he's lost, and he lumbers back to his room, muttering under his breath. I don't care that Annie's piqued his interest. I'm not going to sit back and let him take advantage of her. She's not aggressively competitive to the point of desperation. She's not Muriel.

Then I realize that now I actually have to tell her, or Nath will know tomorrow morning.

This time, it's me muttering under my breath as I knock on her door. The last thing I want to do right now is deal with an angry and scared sixteen-year-old girl. "Go away!" she screams. She's still pissed off.

"I just came to tell you that we entered the Capitol. We'll be leaving the train station in one hour." Charisma. She'll open the door for you. Everybody wants Finnick Odair in their bedroom.

"Okay," she replies, a little less irritably. I wait for footsteps. I hear none. Only breathing.

Try again. "Annie, open the door."

"No."

Entice her. "I have something to tell you."

"It can wait."

"No, it can't," I snap, immediately kicking myself for revealing any of my frustration. Usually I'm pretty good in a crisis; but why does she have to be so damnably stubborn?

The one time I wasn't expecting entry, I hear the squeak of a bed and footsteps on the floor. I can hardly believe it. What's wrong with her? She won't open up to a seductive, curious-about-her-feelings Finnick, but she'll open the door for an angry Finnick?

She's changed out of her pretty green dress and into a nightgown that falls to her ankles. Going conservative. Probably a good idea with Nath lurking around. She hangs out in front of the door, not really blocking my way, but not letting me in either. Again, I feel a completely unfamiliar twinge of annoyance. "Can I come in?"

Annie nods and moves aside. I turn and look at her, but she's gotten smarter. She looks at my mouth instead of my eyes, so she won't be distracted. Either way, she's startled when I tell her that we've chosen Quincy.

"What?"

"Every mentor must choose a victor to keep alive in the arena. The person who is most likely to make it home. The others and I agree that your brother is the one," I explain. "I figured that with all four of us working together, then he'll have a decent shot at winning."

There's a pause. Her face is drained of color. She looks terrified. And she should. She's just been told that she's getting ready to die. "Does he know?" she rasps.

"Of course not. He insisted that you be the one we chose. I told him we would."

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" Annie narrows her eyes, immediately suspicious. I smirk. That's something that Quincy didn't catch.

But at least I can explain my reasoning for choosing Quincy. "He's bigger, stronger, faster...smarter." She doesn't argue on any of this, not even the last one. Most of it's true anyway, but still. Can't she put up any defense?

Maybe she doesn't want us to change our minds.

Or maybe she actually thinks all that's true.

I close up the gap between us, invading her personal space. She looks up, startled, and meets my mocking gaze. "Or maybe I am lying to you. Maybe I think you should win."

Annie's eyes harden like emeralds. She rises to my challenge, pressing forward until our bodies are touching. I can faintly feel her fluttering heartbeat, racing in her ribcage. So my charms aren't completely ineffective with Annie. "Give me your word. That you'll protect him."

And there I was, thinking that she was the one with common sense. Annie must be an honest person. Her word means something. For me, words are less than dirt. Oh, well. I might as well humor her. I lean in, making her as uncomfortable with my proximity as possible. "I swear on my life that I will protect your brother to the best of my ability while he's in the Hunger Games." She seems satisfied with this, but I continue speaking before she can step back. "But in return, Annie Cresta, you have to promise me something."

"What?"

"If he somehow manages to lose the Games, you have to try and win," I say.

Then Annie's warm body is gone. Where did she go? She's an arm's length away, sticking out her hand for a handshake. I have to blink in order to process it. "Deal," she says, putting a face smile on her face.

She's actually making an attempt to resist Finnick Odair's legendary charisma. I smirk and take her hand, easily sliding into my bedroom persona. Let's see how she handles the real deal.

I grab her hand and pull her to me in one fluid motion, wrapping my other arm around her waist and crushing her to my body. Her heart is going crazy, bouncing around in her chest in a sparatic panic. Easy prey.

But something strange is happening to me, too. I was going to release her, but I find myself pressing her closer, leaning in for that first long, slow kiss.

What am I doing?

I brush my lips along her cheek instead, adjusting my aim just in time. "Good night, Annie Cresta," I whisper in her ear. Is that me talking? It doesn't sound like the usual me. And usually I want to push close women away, not pull them even closer.

I need to get out of here. Now.

I'm breezing out of the room before Annie has time to react to any of this. What is she going to say? What did she think I was going to do?

What _was_ I going to do?

Nath is loitering outside of Annie's room. The door was open. "Nice talk," he says bitterly, pushing himself off the wall and following me all the way down the hall. I stop when we get to my room and place a hand on his chest, keeping him an arm's length away.

"Nath. Leave me alone," I say flatly. Still, my voice doesn't sound like it usually does. It's not the smooth, confident voice of Finnick Odair. It's husky and off-kilter, a stranger's sound. Nath looks surprised. He doesn't say another word as I close the door in his face, trying to sort the thoughts that are as jumbled as the ever-present knots in my stomach.

* * *

><p><strong>And so, the first little spark of romance has begun. Sort of.<strong>

**I decided to make Finnick a little more cynical than he was before, a bit more manipulative, and a tad arrogant in his abilities to seduce women. It only seems right that this would be the case after several years of being sold off to the highest bidder, don't you think?**

**I also figured that, while Annie took Finnick's moves a little more seriously in _Sea Glass_, he wouldn't be so deep about it. At this point Annie is just another girl that passes in and out of his life in the blink of an eye, so he can manipulate her however he wants. But Annie has to be just a little bit special; then I wouldn't have a story!**

**Thoughts?**


	19. AG: The Capitol: The Opening Ceremonies

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**he **O**pening **C**eremonies

* * *

><p>Mags isn't in her room, but I know where to find her. A little bit of mindless wandering confirms that she is seated beside a window, gazing at the moon above. Mags is scared of her nightmares; she'd rather stay awake until she's too tired to dream than give in to them. Sometimes she has trouble functioning because of this, but over the years she's learned to manage. I wonder if lack of sleep contributed to her stroke at all, or if it was strictly old age.<p>

I sit down beside her, and she doesn't have to look up to know it's me. She's fiddling with her locket. Thinking of Candra, again. We sit there in silence for quite some time, while I think of what to say. Finally, I just come out and say it. It's better not to beat around the bush with Mags.

"I almost kissed Annie."

Mags is jolted out of her reverie so abruptly that I think she might have another stroke. Her eyes are wide and bewildered, utterly astonished. "_What_?"

"I didn't," I protest defensively. "I only almost did. We were talking about her and Quincy and...I don't know. I'm not sure if it was something like muscle memory or if it was just a heat of the moment thing...I don't know what happened."

Mags raises her eyebrows skeptically.

"Don't give me that! I caught myself before anything else could happen." I'm still on the defensive. "I just gave her a little kiss on the cheek instead. That's all."

She gives me a warning look.

"I know, I know." I put my head in my hands and groan in exasperation. "What am I going to do? I don't want to be...a Nath."

"No Nath," Mags assures, patting my knee. She stops and frowns at me. "Annie needs to focus. You, too."

I nod. "You're right. Thanks, Mags."

We hear Ophelia's heels clacking, and she pops into view. "Oh! You two are already up, that's good. We're getting ready to stop, and I want to get to the stylists as quickly as possible. I've already called them and everything."

It takes a while for everyone else to get up, and by then Mags and I are ready to depart. Ophelia becomes more frenzied with every passing second, rambling on about how important the opening ceremonies are. She's right. I just hope that the Crestas have a better stylist than I did.

I haven't seen Aurora since the final interviews for my Games. I didn't understand the real significance of her sentence until I turned sixteen. The President did a good job of traumatizing me when it came to women. I was afraid to even touch any one of my admirers for fear of their fate, much less establish a serious relationship in those two years. Just when I was starting to get comfortable again, I discovered the real reason for my alienation. Since then, I never desired the touch of any female.

Well, until now.

But when Annie comes down the stairs, bleary-eyed and yawning, I realize that the feeling has passed. She's just another tribute again. Maybe it was just a muscle memory, heat of the moment kind of thing. I certainly hope so.

Ophelia spares no time whisking us out of the train and into the city. It's still dark and the lights are on. Night is when the Capitol is the most beautiful, because there is light around everything. It's as if everything has it's own innocent glow. It's so deceiving, it hurts.

Quincy and Annie are both gaping around them, taking it all in. The tributes' faces are always priceless when they first lay eyes on the Capitol, because the television doesn't do it any justice. The entire city truly is a work of art.

Annie looks up and frowns. I follow her line of vision to the blank, starless sky and understand her confusion. "The lights are too bright. You can't see them," I explain. She scowls and gives me a snappish reply, sticking her nose in the air. I can't help but grin. At least she wasn't affected by my stupidity yesterday. She's still a good judge of character.

One limousine ride later, we're at the faculties where we'll be staying until the tributes are sent to the arena. During the ride I take deep breaths and slowly recede into my numb state, the state where nothing matters, the state where nothing can get me. I stay in the limousine while the others clamor out, eager to get inside and behold more of what the Capitol has to offer. Mags, Nath, and Ophelia are used to it. Annie and Quincy are too absorbed with looking around to notice.

Mags pats my arm as she gets out and closes the door behind her. The limo driver already as the first couple addresses. He pulls out of the parking lot and drives straight on through the city. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The first time is always the worst. I always forget how sickening it is.

The limousine stops. "Here we are. I'll be waiting for you in this spot." The driver hands me a slip of paper, opens a magazine, and begins to read.

I get out and somehow I'm walking into the apartment complex, up the stairs, and to the room that the paper indicates. I raise my fist and knock on the door, beating down the last of my disgust along with it.

* * *

><p>It's almost time for us to leave for the opening ceremonies by the time I get back. I didn't even have time to get a shower or change my clothes. I feel dirty, tainted, but I keep that to myself. Ophelia is too giddy with excitement to notice anything, and Nath is already absent from the premises, like he no doubt will be for the remainder of the Games. Mags gives me space to recuperate for a while, but I know she's concerned.<p>

Quincy comes down first with his stylist, and his attire is promising. He's in a suit of flashing silver scales with black accents, and his skin is decorated with a pattern of crashing waves. It's definitely better than dresses of seaweed, that's for sure. Ophelia compliments Aelia, the stylist, on her design. She says the suit was her idea, but the pattern was all Maya, the other stylist.

We all wait a bit impatiently for Annie. The girls are always the longest to make up, but they're also almost always the ones who steal the show during the ceremonies, subtly drawing attention to their male counterparts.

When Annie comes down, it's obvious that her time with the stylist was well spent. She wears a dress of the same metal scales as Quincy's suit, and is patterned with the same stormy stencil. Her hair is a nest of fish hooks, seashells, and pearls elegantly wrapped around her head. Together, the two of them look like a couple of exotic, ethereal creatures that have just risen from the sea. The effect is grand. They will no doubt get plenty of attention at the opening ceremonies.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Ophelia gives us little time to talk as we are whisked away to the carriages and onward to the ceremonies. Quincy and Annie both look a little green. They ask for advice. I tell them to smile and wave, to charm the crowd. I'm not even going to try to see what a menacing, intimidating angle will do for them. I already know it won't work.

Once the District Three tributes get out of their carriage, I shove Quincy and Annie out of ours. They walk up the red carpet arm-in-arm, predictable and acceptable for siblings, likely to be pondered upon by the audience later. "Good call on making their dress reflective," I compliment Aelia. "Every time somebody takes a picture, they'll draw the eye."

"That's the idea," Aelia says.

The carriage pulls us away so that the District Five tributes can arrive. Maya and Aelia don't stay for long; they abandon the ceremonies in favor of sleep after assuring that there will be no wardrobe malfunctions. "I want to get in all my sleep in case Ophelia calls again," Maya remarks dryly.

"She is pretty crazy," I agree.

Maya just snorts and waves, hopping out of the carriage after Aelia. I watch the ceremonies out of the carriage window for a while, ignoring Mags's hard gaze. She always wants me to say something after the first time, to express my feelings, but I never do. It's one thing I can't talk about to anyone. It's a private and personal pain that I will always keep to myself.

The silence is so profound that it's a relief when the ceremonies are over and Quincy and Annie obliviously climb into the carriage. I quickly strike up a conversation with them, acting as though nothing as happened. Still, the ride back is long and tense for Mags and me. All I want to do is get a shower, foolishly attempt to scrub the invisible filth off of me, and climb into bed when I inevitably fail. Mags wants to talk, but I think she'll respect my wishes.

The tributes immediately head inside, ready for bed themselves after hours on stage. Mags and I try to do the same, except an Avox stops me on my way and hands me a piece of paper. Mags freezes, eyes the paper for a moment, then goes on her way when she catches my look. I don't want her here. This is a disgrace I don't want to share with even her.

Bile is rising in my throat as I open the note and skim through, reading the address and time. It's not until tomorrow morning. I let out a deep breath. Tonight. I have tonight to myself, at least.

"Get off! Get off me!"

Annie's cry is faint and panicky, coming from inside. I quickly stuff the note in my pocket and jog to the source to investigate the issue. She sounds scared.

I walk into Nath crushing Annie against a wall, overpowering her as she struggles to get him off. He's kissing her, running his hands up and down her body. I've just walked into a full-fledged sexual assault.

Pure fury spikes my blood, and before I even have time to think I've drawn my fist back and punched Nath in the face with enough force to split my knuckles. He staggers back, away from Annie, and she slumps against the wall in relief.

"Thanks, Q - " she begins, then she sees that it's me, and shock stunts her words. Obviously she was expecting her brother to come to the rescue, if anybody.

"Are you okay?" I ask. That's the most important thing.

"Not yet," Annie says, narrowing her eyes at Nath. She pushes herself off the wall and marches toward him like some kind of fearsome avenger, mercilessly striking her attacker between the legs with her boot-clad foot. Nath forgets the pain in his face and doubles over. She turns back to me, looking satisfied. "Now, I'm fine."

"I'll call the Capitol tomorrow," I say half amused and still half shaken. I've never known Nath to go this far with an unwilling participant. Has this happened before without my knowledge? Has another tribute suffered worse than Annie, too ashamed or too intimidated to say anything about it? Is it my fault for not being here to protect them like a mentor should? I look over at Nath's wasted form, still doubled over. I'll confront him about this later, when he's a little more coherent. "To get him, that is."

Annie thanks me again, and methodically starts to straighten herself up. As she wipes away the smeared design on her face, I notice that her hands are starting to shake. Of course, no matter what she says, she's not completely fine. Being attacked like that is frightening, especially when you come to the realization that you are entirely powerless against it. "Annie? Are you sure you're okay?"

She sees me staring and clenches her fists. "I'm fine. I - I'm being stupid. I'm fine." Is she trying to convince herself, or me?

"Do you need me to take you to your brother?"

"No! If you do that, Nath won't be alive to see morning!"

Somehow I don't doubt the truth in her words. As if to concur, Nath groans and collapses on the ground. "That is, if he doesn't die of alcohol poisoning first," I remark.

Annie frowns and gestures to him. "Should we - ?"

"Oh, no. Someone will find him eventually. Come on, I'll walk you to your room."

"You really don't need to - " Annie begins, but I stop her words by covering her mouth with my hand. She looks rather surprised, but she stops speaking.

"You're shaking. I'm taking to your room." It's not a request. Something feels wrong about letting Annie wander around by herself after something like this happened. Annie agrees and I take her elbow and steer her away, up to her room. I smirk, thinking that she's being awfully compliant. I wonder if she'll let me take her hand...

She doesn't.

Annie thanks me for the third time when we get up to her room, but it's not necessarily just a signal for me to leave. Coming from her, it's truly sincere. I wonder how she can thank anybody for anything while in the situation she's in.

"For what?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"Punching Nath before he crossed the line. Walking me to my room. Calling the Capitol in the morning," she lists off, shrugging. "Take your pick."

The morning. Those words make my stomach twist, so I shove them from my mind. I need something to take my mind off of what's going to happen tomorrow morning.

Annie's right here. She's proved to be interesting enough to take my mind off things.

"Well," I begin, backing her up against the wall and putting my hands on either side of her face. I'm careful not to trap her; I don't want her thinking that she can't get away if she wants to. I don't want her to think I'm taking advantage of her. "I think I should be thanking you."

"For what?" she squeaks, her eyes darting around, automatically looking for an escape route. But she doesn't move.

I lean in so our faces our inches from each other, taking in the faint scent of makeup from the smeared stencil on her face. "For looking so magnificent tonight." And it's true. She does look magnificent.

"Oh, you should thank my prep team for that," she says, her voice raising an octave. "They're the ones who did all the work. In fact, I actually caused them a bit of trouble, with the gap in my teeth and all." She grins at me, revealing that she does have a formidable gap between her two front teeth. I feel my mouth twitch in response, fighting the urge to laugh. No girl has ever grinned at me after a line like that; most of the time they either melt, blush like crazy, or ravenously pull me closer, depending on the circumstances.

"Well, I find your smile absolutely endearing." Which is also true. The imperfection somehow makes her smile more radiant, more real, than any other I've seen.

"Oh, thanks. I try," she says lamely, shrugging her shoulders. She's stiff and her ears are turning red as she tries too hard not to show her discomfort. My mouth twitches again, and then I'm grinning, and them I'm laughing so hard that my eyes water. I have no idea why.

Neither does Annie. "What?" she snaps.

"You!"

"What about me?"

"You're..." I struggle to find a word to finish that up with. "...different."

The complete and utter cliche of this sentence causes her to scoff. "What? Do you expect every single girl you meet to fall into your arms and let you whisk them away into the sunset?"

"Yes," I say seriously. She laughs, shaking her head. I give her a smirk. "What? You don't like princes?"

"I don't believe in happily ever after," she remarks dryly. "Especially not when..."

And the lightness is gone, replaced with heavy dread as her eyes get wide with horror and she looks at her feet. I do the same, gritting my teeth. She's right. It's hard to believe in happily ever after when you're a tribute in the Hunger Games.

"Good night, Annie," I say. She looks up for a fraction of a second, and I can see every emotion plain on her face: overwhelming fear, nauseating anxiety, conflicting guilt. All the baggage that comes along with being a tribute.

I saw those eyes once. In the mirror, five years ago.

Much like punching Nath in the face, I kiss her without thinking and it happens so fast that I barely even process it. I realize what I've done too late, and I can't look at her as I turn away and speed down the hall. I swallow the lump in my throat and clench my fists, resisting the temptation to scream in helpless frustration.

I can only hope I haven't just slapped a big fat target on her forehead.

* * *

><p><strong>And so.<strong>

**Here were are, at the opening ceremonies, caught in a very complicated love(ish) affair. Now, I know what some of you guys are thinking: well, in Mockingjay, Finnick said that Annie quote, "crept up on him" unquote. While this is true, I started writing_ Sea Glass_ before the releasal of Mockingjay, therefore I had no idea about this little tidbit of information. And since Part Two is based on _Sea Glass_...**

**Well, you get the general idea.**

**I hope it doesn't bother you too much, and I'll manipulate their relationship in a way that doesn't make it to where they're quite as attracted to each other as you might think.**

**So while you're thinking, why don't you share with me your thoughts, yesh?**


	20. AG: The Capitol: Training

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**raining

* * *

><p>Nath Rutsea is relatively irritating on a regular basis, but he's downright infuriating when he's hung over. Then again, he isn't exactly on my list of favorite people for the time being. I could have a biased opinion.<p>

He's curled up in corner of the limousine, clutching his head. The Avoxes were instructed not to serve him any alcohol. This is probably the longest he's been sober in a few years. I'm sure he's suffering, but I can't say I feel any sympathy. If you ask me, he deserves it. Maybe it would be different if he actually showed remorse for his actions...

...then again, maybe it wouldn't. No matter how I try to convince myself that Nath was intoxicated, that he didn't know what he was doing, I can't get the metallic taste of utter disgust from my mouth when I look at him.

The driver screeches to a stop at the train station, but Nath doesn't seem to register it. I promptly unbuckle my seat belt and reach across him to open his door, shoving him out a moment later. He reels back and tumbles out of the car, eyes wild with rage and pain. I close the door when he stumbles back up, swearing at me, and tell the driver to go. I don't look back.

Fifteen minutes later, the driver stops outside a high-end hotel in the middle of the Capitol, very close to where Annie and Quincy and the rest of the tributes are staying and will be training today. Too close.

"You sure this is the right place?" I ask, even though I know the answer.

"Yes. Is there a problem, Mr. Odair?"

"No. Just wondering. Thanks." I get out of the car and make my way into the glistening interior of the hotel, double-checking the room number on the paper before ducking into the rarely used stairwell in the back. I always take the stairs. Capitolites hardly ever do, and it gives me a chance to burn off some of my anxiety.

Three stories later, I'm knocking on the door.

A lady answers it, her delicate frame wrapped in a sheet. She can't be any taller than my shoulder, with big hazel eyes and short blonde hair. I take in her slender body, her soft round face, almost but not quite shed of adolescence. This girl can't be more than fifteen.

"I'm sorry, do I have the right room?"

"Yes, you do," she says with a voice quiet like a child's. She steps out of my way. "Come in, Finnick. I'm Laelia."

I frown at her. "How old are you, Laelia?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. It does to me."

She huffs. "I'm seventeen."

I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I am!" she objects. "But it doesn't matter, anyway. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to hide that you don't know who I am."

"I know who you are," I say. I mean for it to come out as a question but apparently it hasn't, because Laelia shrieks with glee and claps her hands together.

"See! I knew you would remember me! When I snuck backstage last year and you bumped into me, remember that look you gave me? It was like...it was like you were looking _in_ me, not _at _me. Just your eyes made me feel like I've never felt about anyone before. I know that you felt the same way, but you were so busy with everything..." She trails off.

My blood runs cold. These are always the worst. The ones who have deluded themselves into thinking that I'm in love with them after some brief encounter that I don't even remember, and for them this atrocity is real and meaningful while for me it's just some kind of warped slavery. I'd almost rather have the ones looking to feel young again, or the ones who just want to say they've been the lover of Finnick Odair. But the women who actually fool themselves into thinking we're in love...they're always the worst. When I'm with them, I don't feel tainted. I feel like the one doing the tainting, and it's twice as horrible a feeling.

I'm not sure if Laelia would even be considered a woman. I'm not sure if this is even _legal_, whether we're in the Capitol or not. I don't care what she says, Laelia is not seventeen.

But if she's here, then President Snow approved her for whatever reason. If I refuse to entertain her, then something bad is going to happen. He can't honestly believe she's seventeen though, can he? I may hate the President with a passion, but there's no denying that he's disturbingly brilliant. He wouldn't be fooled by a girl's simple lies.

"It's okay, Finnick," Laelia says, taking my hesitation as conflict between some other matters she's no doubt made up. She presses her tiny hand on my cheek, blinking at me with two naive, innocent eyes. "It's okay, I promise. You don't have to worry about anything. I wouldn't want anyone else as my first."

The sheet drops around her ankles as she leads me to the bed.

* * *

><p><em>There's an endless limousine ride with Nath drunkenly laughing beside me, Muriel straddling his lap. She's wearing the seaweed costume of our opening ceremonies. As she twists in her seat, sighing and throwing her head back as Nath licks her neck, it slips off her shoulders and leaves her entirely exposed. I look away, but they're also on my other side. I focus straight ahead, and I can see them in the rear view mirror. In the mirror, Nath looks at me. His eyes glow with the same ocean-green hue as mine.<em>

_The limousine melts around me, and I'm standing at the foot of a long, spiraling staircase. I take the first step and run, run, run until I can run no more, but I've made no progress. There's still a thousand steps to go._

_When I look up I see a big wooden door that wasn't there before. I knock on the polished surface, and Annie opens the door. She's wrapped in a thin sheet, and flowers are twisted and braided in her long brown hair. I fall to my knees and put my face in my hands because I can't do it, I can't do it, but I know that I have to if I want the few people I care about to live._

_Annie drops the sheet, but she has an Avox uniform under it. Gone are the flowers in her hair, gone are her bright green eyes, gone is the gap between her two front teeth. It's no longer Annie. Aurora stands before me now, gazing down upon me with cold, cruel hatred. She slowly falls to her knees in front of me and tilts my chin up, brushing her lips along mine. It burns as though she's poured acid down my throat. I can't breathe, I can't talk, I can't even beg for mercy._

I wake up shivering in a cold sweat, biting the pillow to keep from screaming. Laelia does not lay beside me; no, I left her room many hours ago. Now it's a woman who would not reveal her name, a woman with long nails and sharp teeth who left cuts and bruises on my body. I'm careful not to jostle her awake as my convulsions of terror subside and I crawl out of bed, bending to gather my clothes but rushing to the bathroom instead to throw up until there's nothing left in my system. The porcelain is cool against my cheek as I lean on it, waiting for the hyperventilation to stop. I can't arrive back to the others in this condition. I need to get cleaned up.

The shower shocks me into awareness, the cold water raising goosebumps on my skin. It burns on my injuries so much that I have to grip the bar on the side to keep from crying out. But I stay until the cold has driven away any receptiveness in my skin, until I am numb from head to toe. Then I get out and go through the routine. I brush my teeth, my hair, pull my spare clothes on since the ones I came in are ripped, shredded cloth around the room.

When I step outside to leave, the nameless woman is already gone.

* * *

><p>Somehow, that night, I end up staring at the moon with Mags again.<p>

I got back just minutes before Annie and Quincy returned from training. They said the Careers asked them to join their pack, and they declined. "Good," I'd said. Then nothing more. I was still rehabilitating from the earlier events in the day.

The more time I spend with Mags, the more I appreciate her. She doesn't poke around unwarranted; she doesn't ask questions. She allows me to just sit beside her and be wrapped up in my thoughts without necessarily being alone. I don't have to say a word to her, but after hours of this companionship we might as well have had an entire conversation.

The moon is bright again tonight, casting the lines on Mags's face in sharp relief. The people here in the Capitol think she is ugly for these wrinkles. I think that she is beautiful for them. It took a lifetime of grief and joy to create them. They are her story, laid out for the world to see.

But the wrinkles also scare me. They show me that Mags is getting older, that she is getting weaker. She is fading away. One day, she will be gone. I remember holding her hand after the stroke, these very same thoughts running through my head. What would I do without Mags? A world without her is inconceivable.

"Hey! Finnick! Mags!" Quincy comes barrelling down the corridor in a panicked state, carrying a dripping bundle in his arms. "I need your help! It's Annie!"

Mags and I share identical looks of alarm before I shoot out of my seat. The dripping bundle is indeed Annie, water trailing off of her long tresses and splashing onto the fine carpet. Blood runs down her foot, mingling with the water and spreading a deep scarlet stain.

"What happened?"

"She was walking around in the fountain and she was talking all weird, and then she cut her foot and passed out! I - I don't know what happened!" Quincy is in a real state of hysteria as the Avoxes take Annie from his arms and carry her away for medical attention. Quincy makes to step around me and join her, but I grab his shoulder and keep him in place.

"This is important. I need you to tell me, in detail, what happened," I order, looking at him sternly. "Has she ever done this before? Does she have any seizure disorders or anything?"

"No," Quincy says. He takes a deep breath. "I found her on the rooftop gardens, dipping her feet in the fountain up there. We were talking about...about the Games, and she started walking around. She was acting really strange...then she hit her foot on a sharp piece of glass in the fountain and cut it. All of a sudden she collapsed in the water, and I rushed her down here."

I frown. This doesn't sound right at all.

Mags warbles something that sounds like, "Sure that happened?" I translate for her, carefully surveying Quincy's face. He's looking at Mags, flushing guiltily under the pressure of her knowing, careful gaze. But he nods and refuses to say more.

We wait patiently for the doctors to fix Annie up. Eventually one comes in, his eyes trained on a clipboard. "We found an anaesthetic in her system. Someone must of given it to her, or maybe she took it herself. It'll take some investigating, but..."

"That won't be necessary, Doctor," I cut in, sparing Quincy a look. "She'd mentioned trying to take something to help her sleep earlier. Maybe she miscalculated the dosage or something."

The doctor shrugged. "Very well. She'll probably be out for a few more hours, but she should be awake by tomorrow. Make sure she eats plenty when she does, and if she experiences any swelling or discoloration in her foot she'll need to see me immediately." He turns his back and retreats down the corridor. I wait until he's out of earshot to turn on Quincy.

"You _drugged_ your sister?" I hiss. It's not really a question. "What, exactly, would motivate you to something so unbelieveably stupid?"

Quincy narrows his eyes, scowling. "I don't have to explain anything to you. You don't have any proof that I did anything. You're making false accusations."

"You want me to get the doctor back down here? I can tell him to launch a thorough investigation," I threaten.

"Yeah? Then what? I'll become an Avox?" Quincy scoffs, shaking his head. "That's nothing compared to what's going to happen to me in a few days. It'd be a welcome escape, if it wasn't for Annie."

Mags puts a hand on his arm. "Tell."

"No! I don't have to tell you anything," Quincy persists, his emerald eyes hardening. He snatches his arm out of Mags's grasp. Her eyebrows come together in a sad frown.

"All we want to know is why you'd want to put Annie at a disadvantage after your heart-warming speech the other day," I say sardonically, though I doubt this is the case. "Unless, of course, that was all an act."

Quincy's face contorts with outrage as he lunges at me. I dodge his fierce attack effortlessly, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. "Talk, or I might have to put you at a disadvantage too." I put more pressure on his arm for clarification.

"I wondered...if they thought she was sick...maybe they'd let her out of the Hunger Games," Quincy begrudgingly admits. "I thought maybe she'd be free."

Poor delusional kid. I release him, and assess him as he rolls his shoulders. _He'll really do anything to get her out alive_, I realize. _Absolutely anything_. To him I say, "It doesn't work like that. No matter what her condition, they'll send her out. Once she's chosen, only death can get her out. And the Capitol has basically taken every procaution to prevent suicide. I'm surprised you managed to even get your hands on drugs."

"I got them from Ophelia," Quincy mutters. "I told her I was having trouble sleeping."

"I'll be having a few words with Ophelia," I say. I look at him sternly. "It's important that you don't try anything like this again, got it? You had good intentions, but too much of an overdose and you could've killed her." I'm surprised when my voice cracks on the last word, but I continue on. "The only way you can keep her safe now is protecting her in the arena. Mags and I will be there to help you do that."

Quincy nods reluctantly. "You're right. That was stupid of me."

"People do stupid things when they're desperate. Believe me," I assure with a wry smile. I should know. I've done a lot of stupid, desperate things.

Mags and I go to leave, but I turn back to warn Quincy, "Oh, and if you try something like this again, I _will _break your arm. Like I said, the Capitol will send you into the arena no matter what your condition."

Quincy hmphs, as if he'd like to see me try. But I do notice him unconsciously roll his shoulder again, as if testing to make sure it's still functional.

* * *

><p><strong>So, the last part of this chapter was supposed to be in the next chapter, but this one turned out really short and find off filler-ish. Therefore I put this next part in. It kind of messes up the correspondance with Sea Glass (if you're going chapter to chapter, though the events are still in the same order) but that will be fixed. <strong>

**I request feedback, as usual.**


	21. AG: The Capitol: Scores

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **S**cores

* * *

><p>For the rest of the night, my nightmares orbit around the idea of Annie drowning; in the fountain, in the ocean, or because she's drugged and can't swim. Drowning is an unpopular way for a tribute to die in the Hunger Games since it's essentially action-less, but the pure irony of a District Four swimmer drowning might be enough to entice the Gamemakers to try it one day.<p>

Everyone but Ophelia is suffering from dark circles and slumped shoulders at the breakfast table. Annie has yet to arrive. I guess she's still out cold.

Ophelia tsks. "How much sleep does she need to recover, anyway? Today is your private session with the Gamemakers! We can't waste it!"

I take this opportunity to scold her for supplying Quincy with the pills in the first place, to which she grows sullen and quiet. For once. Mags gives me a look that says I was too hard on her, especially considering her particularly delicate nature, but I don't really care right now. Because of her poor judgment, Quincy got a hold of potentially dangerous drugs and could have inflicted serious harm on Annie. She's already scarred enough by these Games as it is, what with Nath sexually harassing her and the impending threat of sudden, violent death on the horizon. She doesn't need her brother drugging her on top of all that.

Annie doesn't come down until around noon. When she does, she immediately heads for the food, piling her plate high with delicacies. Then she sits down and starts eating, blinking up at the rest of us when she realizes that we are all staring at her. "What?"

"Are you...feeling okay?" Quincy probes carefully.

"Yes, except for the big cut on my foot," Annie replies, stirring her food around. "What happened?"

"You cut your foot on the bottom of the fountain," Quincy says.

"Yes, I remember that. But after?"

Quincy seems reluctant to relinquish too much information. Probably deciding whether to tell her the truth or not. "You fainted and I dragged you out of the pond."

Annie nods, as though this aligns correctly with what she can remember. "And was I okay?"

"Yes," I interrupt before Quincy can say too much. I don't want him overloading her with the truth. She needs to focus, and all that the truth would be a distraction. "The doctor said that it was exhaustion and to let you sleep it off. You overworked yourself."

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess. I'm fine now," she adds to assure us, shoveling more food into her mouth. Quincy gives me a look, an awkward mixture of relief and anger.

Ophelia butts in. "Good. We've got to get you caught up. Today is the private session with the Gamemakers, so you must get in an hour of training - "

"Ophelia," I snap, interrupting her. An hour of training? What good would that do, at this point? And who decided that rule anyway? "I think Mags and I can handle this, thanks."

"But the schedule - "

"Is unimportant at this point. We don't have any time to train. Besides, we wouldn't want to wear them out, right?"

"Right..." Ophelia says, wavering.

Mags cuts in. "Sponsors."

"Yes," I agree. "Why don't you go look for potential sponsors while we discuss the private sessions?" That way you'll be out of our hair, and we'll be out of yours.

"But we haven't even gotten the scores yet!" Ophelia cries.

"We can't be too hasty. We need as many sponsors as possible. You know what they say: 'The early bird gets the worm,'" Quincy adds.

Ophelia surrenders and scampers out of the room, leaving just the four of us. I lean back with a sigh, relishing the momentary quiet. Then I turn my eyes to my tributes. "So...what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe chuck some weights around, throw some spears," Quincy says with a shrug. He won't stand out from the crowd with that material, but he's big and fit enough that he won't need to.

"What about you, Annie?" I ask.

"I have no idea," she admits, looking hopeless.

Go for every-day approach. "What did you do on your father's boat?"

"I haul in fish. Gut them. Things like that," she says. Immediately my thoughts flash to a net, and then a knife. Two formidable weapons when used separately; together, though, they are virtually useless.

I decide to go offensive. "Gut fish? You must be pretty handy with a blade then, right?"

Annie shrugs, which is absolutely no help at all. Mags grabs a knife off of the table and hands it to her. "Show us," she orders. Annie takes the knife and studies it, turning it around in her hands. Then she throws it at the wall and it sticks, but unfortunately it falls a few seconds after. She might be the first person in the history of the Hunger Games to get a one for her score, if she does that for the Gamemakers.

"Well," I sigh, "I guess you'll just have to wing it."

"Wing it?" she repeats.

"Yes. Don't worry, you'll know what to do when you get up there." I hope.

"And if I don't?"

I give her a look. "Do anything you can to show them that you can survive. That's what they'll be looking for." And it's the best advice I can give. Because behind all the ceremony, the Hunger Games are nothing but a fight for survival.

* * *

><p>Annie and Quincy leave for the private sessions an hour later, faces pale and nervous. I leave for my next appointment. The woman has a jacuzzi that spurts bubbles of every color, consistency, and scent. I think of Annie the whole time. The image of her drowning keeps leaping out from the back of my mind, flashing behind my eyelids like a neon sign.<p>

The woman, Devina, wraps her arms around my waist as I dry off and buckle my belt. "Are you sure you have to go?" she murmurs, pressing her lips to my shoulder. Her slender fingers trail down my stomach until she's reached my belt buckle, holding my hands to stop their progress. "You don't want to stay for just a little bit longer?"

"Duty calls," I reply, taking her hands and absently placing them back at her sides. I pull on my shirt. "I'm hoping District Four will have a tribute this year."

"Well, I'll certainly be a sponsor," Devina promises, crushing her body against mine. "If I can have just one more kiss..."

Her mouth moves hungrily on mine. Her lips taste like sugar. She nimbly begins unbuttoning my shirt, but once again I stop her progress. "I'm serious. I have to go," I say. Devina steps back with a pout, her thin silk robe slipping down one shoulder, clinging to her wet skin.

"Fine," she begrudgingly permits. "I'll be watching to see your tributes' scores. I'm sure they'll be spectacular, with you as their mentor."

"Hopefully," I mutter, ducking out of her home. The hotel where we are staying is only a few blocks away; instead of taking the limousine, I jog there. It seems like the locations are getting closer and closer to the hotel where the others are staying. I'm not sure if that's good or bad.

I make it just as dinner is being served. Quincy threw some weights around like he'd said he would. I'm honestly more curious about what Annie did, and a little apprehensive when she explains.

"Harpoons? That's what you showed them?"

"Yes," she replies with a shrug. "When Quincy and I went whale hunting with our father once, I was a natural with harpoons. It was a long time ago though, and I only went with him once. I didn't even notice they had harpoons until I walked into the private session."

_Probably confused them for spears_, I think. I wonder how well she really could have done, only practicing with her weapon of choice once before. And there's also another problem. "If you're good with a harpoon you might have gotten a decent score but...it's unlikely that there'll be any harpoons in the arena," I say.

"Whatever," she says nonchalantly. "I don't need a harpoon to survive."

"I'm sure you don't," I say, the beginnings of a smile nudging the corners of my mouth up. Even without Quincy, Annie probably could survive for a fair while in the arena. She's resourceful, quick on her feet, and smart. Now winning on her own...well, that might be a bit of a stretch.

My gut clenches when I think of her dying. Once again, the haunting image of her struggling in the water flashes across my mind.

We get the scores after dinner. The tributes from One, Two, the girl from Seven, and Arthor all get in the eight to ten range. The others get from four to seven. The lowest score, a three, is awarded to the boy from Twelve.

Quincy gets a seven. Annie gets a nine.

The others cheer when the screen goes black, applauding the two of them for their fair scores. Annie seems to be in a state of shock. A nine. She did better than the girl from One. She did better than a Career.

Quincy scoops her up into a elated hug. Over his shoulder she looks at me with wide eyes, but her message can't be clearer. She's terrified that her better score will change my mind about the promise I made to her, about my promise to keep Quincy alive in the arena.

I wonder when she will realize that all my promises are meaningless.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter was a little shorter, but it was only because I took the beginning of it and added it to the last chapter. It started out super long. I don't know what happened, but the next chapter they're practicing for the interviews and such, so it'll probably be a little longer. In all honesty, this was more of a filler than anything else.<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	22. AG: The Capitol: Counting Down

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **C**ounting **D**own

* * *

><p>Tomorrow will be the last day I see them.<p>

This is the thought I wake up to, and it's rather depressing. Tomorrow is the interviews, and then the Cresta siblings will head off into the arena. It's easy to think that once they leave I'll never see them again. Still, I'm not sure which thought is more painful: the thought of them dying, or the thought of one of them living and learning the truth. The thought of _her _living and learning the truth.

Today is a day of practicing procedures for the interviews. I already know that this is going to be an aggravating day. Quincy and Annie won't want to work separately; they have trouble remembering that they are two individual units in this game. They have to forge identities away from each other if they are ever going to make it.

Separating them proves just as difficult as I thought, but after a brief argument over breakfast they eventually concur with my suggestion. Neither of them want to manage Ophelia and her etiquette first, so they draw straws. Quincy pulls the short one, and is dragged away.

This leaves Annie, Mags, and me alone in the room. I watch her watch us, wondering exactly what thoughts are going through her head. I wonder what angle we need for her interviews. Her kindness will get her nowhere, nor will her innocence. She wouldn't be able to pull off a fierce, barbaric facade. And there is absolutely no way I'm putting her up there with the sexy angle. My dreams are already haunted enough without adding that sin to my conscience's load.

I lean back into my seat, frustrated. "What are we going to do with you...?" I ponder.

"I don't know. I can't do sexy. I'm not funny. I might be able to reach innocent, but with my score even that would be a stretch," Annie says, eager to escape the silence of the room.

"Modest?" Mags suggests.

"No. They want to know about you, and being humble isn't going to accomplish that," I say. But modest does present some interesting possibilities. I narrow my eyes, assessing her blank, pointed face. I look at her makeup-free skin, her patient green eyes flecked with gold and brown, her smile that is all the more perfect for its flaw. Annie is flawed, but she's not afraid to admit it; that's what makes her better. That's what makes her good.

She stares at me, and only blinks if I do. My lips twitch upward. Is she trying to have a staring contest? Resisting the temptation to roll my eyes, I think, _Annie is so..._

What? What would I end that sentence with?

"Honesty."

Annie blinks, surprised. "What?"

"Honesty, that's your angle," I say again. "You haven't said one lie since I met you." _Despite all the times I've lied to you_, I add in my head, swallowing the disgust that rises in my throat.

She looks offended. "How do you know? Maybe I'm just a good liar."

"Trust me, Annie. I know when somebody's lying, and you are definitely not a liar. You're one of the truest people I've ever encountered." I'm struck by how true this statement is in itself. Annie is positively the most honest person I've ever met. For a second, I hate her for it.

"Are you sure? What if I'm too blunt for the audience? What if I offend them?" she asks, frowning.

I laugh bitterly and shake my head, astounded that it's taken me so long to figure this out, amazed at how utterly blind she is to her supremacy over the rest of us. "That's just it; you always find away to be honest and polite at the same time. Even when you are forthright, you never make it insulting. We can use that to our advantage. The audience will admire you because you are what they can never be: real." I stop and take a breath, beating down my growing excitement. Am I speaking for the Capitol? Or am I the admirer, the envious one? I let out the breath, looking at my hands. "That is something they can never accomplish."

She is silent for what seems like a very long time. I look up to find her staring at me, tilting her head in an unspoken inquiry. My blood runs cold, and I sneak a peek at Mags to find her staring at Annie, avoiding my gaze. How much have I revealed?

Annie finally nods in acceptance, and we begin drilling her on things she needs to say and things she can't say. She picks it up fairly quickly, probably because this angle suits her so well. My mind works at a breakneck pace, wondering what exactly is going through her mind, wondering what Mags is thinking, wondering what the stylist is going to make her wear for the interview tomorrow.

Most importantly, I wonder if this is going to help her survive or if it will hurt her somehow. I wonder which I want it to do.

I take Annie to Ophelia after our two hours are up. Quincy and Ophelia are at each others' throats by the time we get there, then relieved to be out of each others' presence. Ophelia pushes her former charge at me and practically orders me to take him. Then she grabs Annie and drags her down the hall, out of my reach. Quincy starts in the other direction, and I know I should follow. I look back before I do, catching Annie doing the same. A warm feeling spreads in me as I smile at her and give her a wink. I see her scowl just before she rounds the corner and out of sight.

Quincy is impatiently waiting for me with Mags, not bothering to sit down, a ball of stress. He's still high-strung from his session with Ophelia. I sit down and stare at him, expecting him to do the same, but he continues to stand even as the awkward minutes drag by.

"You're not going to win any sponsors with that expression," I remark finally.

"I don't need sponsors," Quincy snaps.

"No, but Annie does."

Quincy glares at me, and he sits. I watch him for a second. He is so different from Annie, it's almost funny. It's like comparing a thunderstorm to a crisp blue sky. Where Annie was open and playful, Quincy is brooding and tense. He lets out a breath and stares me down. He has his sister's eyes. "There's no need for you to deliberate my angle. I already know what I'm going to do."

"Oh? And what is that?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Big brother," he answers. "I want my interview to be focused on my relationship with Annie. I want everything I say to reflect back on her. When people think of me, I want them to think of her."

"That's not - "

"It's good for her. It will get her sponsors even for people who like me more. It will get her help when I die," Quincy reasons, so desperate to get me to accept his plan that he's not allowing me any time to speak. He crosses his arms stubbornly. "Even if you get me another angle, I'm using that one. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

He's right. The only thing I could do was try to convince him to take on another angle, but knowing that expression it wouldn't work. Besides, I'm not sure that this is necessarily a bad thing. He does make some very good points.

"Fine," I say.

"No," says Mags.

Quincy and I both turn to her, startled. She's giving me a disapproving glare, then turns to Quincy. "Can't be all Annie. Family man angle."

"Annie is my family," Quincy says.

"Can't be all Annie," Mags repeats.

I don't know why Mags is bothering to argue, but she has been doing this for much longer. "Who else is in your family?" I begrudgingly ask.

"My mother and my father, but I'm closest to Annie," Quincy says. It's responses like that that will turn the focus to his sister.

Mags raises her eyebrows. "Friends?"

"Not any that I'm really close to."

"Girlfriends?"

"No." Quincy's about as good of a liar as Annie is.

"What's her name?" I ask, taking the hint from Mags.

"You don't need to know," Quincy snaps defensively. "I don't want all of you prying into my personal business."

"That's what the interviews are about!" I say, exasperated.

"No, it's about showing us off before we get slaughtered!" Quincy counters.

"Fine!" I exclaim, because he's not wrong. "So what if it is? Do you think that you refusing to play their little game is going to put you in their favor? Do you think you're helping yourself by being stubborn? You said you wanted to protect Annie. You can't do that if you're dead!"

Quincy is silent, scowling at his feet. "Tally," he says quietly. "Her name is Tally."

After that, Quincy answers any questions we might have about his life. He's pretty good at finding ways to maneuver his answers so they're oriented around his family and, most often, Annie. He still hasn't let that little angle go yet, which I can tell irritates Mags a little bit.

Dinner begins with little conversation and tense attitudes. Everyone seems to be mad at each other; Annie and Quincy are both angry with Ophelia, Quincy and I are still irritated with each other, and even Mags seems a bit irked. The mood is heavy, and I don't like it. I feel like I'm suffocating.

To relieve come of the pressure, I start teasing Quincy about Tally. Annie quickly jumps in, and together we fall into an easy banter with the others. "So what about you, Annie?" I ask when the topic of Quincy's love life has been exhausted. "Do you have anyone special?"

I can feel Mags staring at me, but I don't look at her. I keep my attention focused on Annie. "No," she says, shaking her head with a laugh.

"Come on, there has to be someone," I urge.

"There isn't," she says, suddenly sober. "Honestly."

"Okay..."

Annie rolls her eyes, and the rest of dinner is relaxed. I feel like something inside of me has uncoiled, some concern has been obliterated from my long list. It feels nice to let loose, to tell a few jokes, to have people laugh. To laugh. When was the last time I laughed, anyway?

We leave to our rooms after dinner. Mags stops me at the door to my room, gazing at me with her lilypad-green eyes. "What?" I ask.

"You're different," she says slowly, measuring her words. "With Annie."

"What do you mean?"

"Careful," Mags warns. She pats my cheek her with her withered hand. "Don't want to see you hurt."

"It always hurts," I say. "You know that better than I do."

Mags touches the chain around her neck with her other hand. Then she recedes down the hallway and to her room, where I know she won't stay. I stand outside my door for what seems like a long time, contemplating her words. Her warning. What does she think Annie's death will do to me? Will it be any different than the death of the tributes who died last year, and the year before that? I don't know.

With these thoughts swirling around in my head, I know I won't be able to sleep. I wander the halls aimlessly like I used to do. I see Mags stationed at her window, but I don't want to sit with her tonight. I pass Quincy's room and hear him pacing inside. The door to Annie's room is open; I peek in and see she's not there.

Suddenly, there's a purpose to my wandering. It's almost an hour before I find her on a balcony covered with potted plants, looking down into the Capitol street below. She doesn't hear me come up behind her. "It's very pretty, isn't it?"

She surprises me by wheeling around and nearly punching me in the face. I manage to dodge it in time. She gasps and covers her mouth, looking absolutely mortified. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - it was a reflex, I swear!"

"Annie, it's alright. No blood, no foul," I say, amused. That particular reflex is a good one to have, where she's going. Not a bad right hook.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" she snaps, moving from stricken to defensive in an instant. Where do all these volatile emotions come from?

"Where you expecting solitude?" I inquire. It's kind of a stupid question - we are on an isolated balcony - but solitude is such a foreign concept to me that it's hard for me to imagine anyone actually expecting it.

Annie looks around, the breeze lifting her hair. "I wasn't exactly expecting anyone to find me."

"Do you want me to leave?" I say, turning to go. If I could have a moment of peace, I would want to savor it alone too.

"No!" she says quickly. Then she gets flustered and adds, "I mean, you can if you want, but you don't have to."

"You really are too honest," I remark, shaking my head in amusement. "I think you just impulsively say whatever's on your mind."

"I'd rather be too honest than I big fat liar," she retorts, her face turning sour.

"I'm assuming by 'big fat liar' you mean me."

"Obviously. Don't even try to tell me otherwise," she says. "We both know it's true."

"You're right," I say. I'm rather impressed she's so aware of the degree of my deception. I've found that honest people have trouble picking out the lies from truths.

"What?" She blinks in surprise, expecting some kind of defense, probably.

"I am a liar. I lie every day; to the Capitol, to District Four, even to Mags. But don't think for a second that I've ever lied to you." For once in my life, I wish that the words spilling out of my mouth were true. I wish that I really have never lied to her, because she doesn't deserve to be lied to.

"You've only known me for five days," she says wryly, raising an eyebrow as if this is no fantastic feat. "Besides, how do I know you're not lying to me now?"

I'm completely dazed. How could she not eat that up like the others? I give her an exasperated look, blurting out, "Really, Annie? You just totally ruined my romantic thunder."

"Sorry," she shrugs.

"It's true," I try again. "I've never lied to you, even though it's only been five days."

"So does that mean you'll keep your promise? That you'll try and bring Quincy home?" Annie looks at me steadily, preparing herself for my answer. Can't she see how much she's asking of me? To keep a promise. Have I ever kept a promise since that time in the arena, that time when I killed for Spring?

A shudder runs through me. No, I don't think I have. "If that's what you want," I say, focusing on her as I force the memory into submission. "I'll do whatever you want."

"You've only known me for five days," she says for the third time. It seems to be her ultimate defense, the span for which I've known her.

"Yes, and you've only known me for five days," I say, taking her hand. It's cold from the wind, but it fits perfectly in mine. "You can't tell me that this doesn't feel good to you." She doesn't have anything to say. I nod solemnly, and keep her hand in mine. "So I digress."

We stand there in silence until Annie starts to fall asleep, drooping perilously over the railing. I'm almost afraid she'll topple over, so I scoop her up and take her back to her room. She's barely conscious as I lay her down and brush the hair from her face. It's a strange feeling to do this out of consideration and not a sense of duty. But disgust still rises in my throat, familiar and yet totally alien. It's not disgust for the girl in my arms; it's self-disgust, because what am I doing right now? What am I thinking?

"Goodnight, Annie," I say. Part of me yearns to stay here with her, because I know that Annie will let me hold her without expecting anything more, but another part of me wants to run away and never come back to her side again.

She opens her eyes just enough to look at me, half asleep. "G'night, Finnick." Her hand falls slack as she finally succumbs to her exhaustion. I press my lips to her forehead before departing, aching inside when I sense the hollow space between my fingers where Annie's hand resided just moments before.

Spring and Annie and mingle and alternate in my nightmares. I wake up in a cold sweat, heaving great sobs of terror, knowing that Annie is one person whose promises I will have to keep.

* * *

><p><strong>INTERVIEWS NEXT TIME! :D<strong>

**Press the blue button! You know you want to...**


	23. AG: The Capitol: Interviews

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **I**nterviews

* * *

><p>"I have to go."<p>

"Stay for a little longer."

"It's almost time for the interviews. If I'm not there, people will be mad at me."

"Let them." Seline kisses my shoulder and makes a soft sound of contentment. Mid-morning light streams in through the windows of the hotel, shining directly in my eyes. Seline's hands are hot and sweaty on my bare chest. I wish I could shrug her off and get a cold shower. She's like a human furnace; heat radiates off of her in waves.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, cupping her chin in my hand. Her eyes are the russet orange of a sunset on the beach, a beautiful color except where she has applied it. She heaves a sigh and untangles her limbs from mine. I climb out of the bed and dress in as much as a hurry as I can without seeming too eager. I'm not sorry to leave at all.

Seline watches me with her big oranges eyes, following me like a cat who's getting ready to trap a fly. Her pupils are slitted like a cat's too. She doesn't make any move follow my lead. The room is in her name anyway, and she booked it for the whole night. Or so she told me.

Just as I'm getting ready to depart, Seline slides out of bed and walks over to a desk, writing something down on a notepad. She tears the page out and carefully folds it, then sashays over to me and pulls me toward her by my beltloops. Her lips are as hot as the rest of her body, burning my mouth. I feel her slip the paper into my pocket. Then she releases me and turns around on the heel of her foot, swaying her hips as she makes her way to the bathroom.

I grab the last of my things and exit the room, feeling the paper in my pocket. I don't dare open it until I can find a trifle of privacy, which probably won't be for a while. Seline works in the Capitol building right beside the President; she is a treasure-trove of information.

The limousine is waiting for me outside the doors. When I crawl in, the driver tells me there's lipstick on my mouth.

I spot Ophelia outside the headquarters when I arrive back. She looks relieved. "There you are!" She takes in my appearance and her face falls. "Where have you - oh well, never mind. Hurry up and get clean. Annie and Quincy leave for the interviews in ten minutes." I follow her inside, waving the driver away. He will no doubt drive back to give a report to the President, but this time he will not return with a new list of addresses. Once the Games start, that is where all my time and energy goes.

Once I get to my room, I start the shower water and disrobe, carefully extracting the valuable paper. Seline's careful scrawl covers half the page. An update on the President's finances, his plans for the meeting with the disobedient Head Peacekeeper of District Eight, and such. There's nothing particularly important, which is mildly disappointing, but also relieving in a way. I rip the paper into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet.

It takes me about ten minutes to get a shower and pull on new outfit. I race downstairs to find Ophelia, Mags, and Quincy waiting for me and, evidently, Annie. "Sorry, slept in late," I explain, mostly for Quincy's benefit; Mags knows full well where I've been and what I've been doing, and Ophelia probably has a pretty good idea. But they don't say anything about it, for which I am grateful.

Annie and her stylist arrive. Annie looks incredible. She's angelic and glowing in a iridescent white gown that swirls to her feet. She's covered in gold dust from head to toe. Little bits of it float in the air around her, landing on the floor, her gown, her matching gold shoes. I find it impossible to tell her how she looks, but all of us praise her stylist. And Quincy's too, because he looks pretty good in a blue suit with silver accents.

We head outside and into the Capitol twilight. Delicate white lilies line the path to the car, spreading their gentle fragrance in the air. They match the sheen of Annie's dress exactly. I pluck the prettiest one and tuck it behind her ear, smiling at her shocked face. "Perfect," I say. She returns my smile, looking absolutely stunning and sweet. Guilt clogs my throat when I see her lovely smile, and I look away from her, ashamed.

I shouldn't lead on a dying girl.

The Crestas go back stage while the rest of us are hustled into the top balcony, where all the important officials, victors, stylists, and Gamemakers are seated according to their position of power. Only the President isn't in attendance; he never is. He only shows his face during the second interviews, when he is confident that he has fully corrupted the child before him, one way or the other.

I sit between Mags and Beetee, the male mentor for District Three. He's a qualified genius, but he's a little weird, though not nearly as much as his female counterpart, Wiress. Johanna calls Wiress Nuts, because she's nuts, and Beetee Volts, because he won his Hunger Games using only a wire that conducted electricity. Or something. I've asked him to explain it to me, but it's way above my head.

"Hey, Beetee," I greet. I lean forward so I can see Nuts, who is studiously inspecting the metal railing of the balcony. "Hello, Wiress."

The later gives me an absent nod, while Beetee exchanges my greeting politely. Suddenly I feel a sharp smack on the back of my head. I don't have to turn around to know who it is, but I do anyway.

There she is, baring down at me with a half-crazed grin that is carnivorous by default, her wide-set eyes flickering with amusement, daring me to retaliate. How anyone believed for a moment that Johanna Mason was just a harmless little girl from District Seven is beyond me. She exudes an aura of reckless abandon, of brutal aggressiveness that screams, _Don't fuck with me_.

"So you say hi to Nuts and Volts before me, eh?" she says, loud enough for Beetee and Wiress to hear, but they don't react. Why would they? They're used to Johanna's attitude at this point. She doesn't care if she's being offensive or rude; frankly, she doesn't care about much of anything. Johanna pretty much says whatever's on her mind, which I envy her for. But then I remember why she's like this, and think that if I lost everything that I loved then I would probably be like this too.

"I like them better," I reply.

"And I like peanut butter better than I like you, but that doesn't mean I greet it before you when I enter a room."

"Hello, Johanna," I say with a touch of sarcasm. "Oh, how I've missed you."

"You should." Johanna plops down in her seat just as the lights dim, signaling the beginning of the proceedings. Caesar Flickerman, donned in bright yellow this year, strides on stage and receives a roar of applause from everyone, even us victors. Everybody likes Caesar.

Then the tributes file on stage. I pick out Annie and Quincy as they sit in the seventh and eighth seats, respectively. As Caesar begins talking, Johanna kicks the back of my chair. I try to ignore her, but she kicks until I turn around. "What?"

"Let's get out of here."

I nod and follow her down the isle, crawling so nobody will notice our departure. Out of the corner I see Mags shaking her head, trembling slightly with silent laughter.

We exit out of the side and stroll down the elegant, glassy hallways. I don't really know where Johanna intends to go until she stops suddenly outside the girls' bathroom and roughly shoves me inside, locking the door behind her.

I look around, noting the sunny yellow tile and lack of urinal. "Lovely place for a chat."

"Shut up," Johanna says, hopping up on the counter and kicking off the acidic green heels that match her dress. "So, I haven't seen you in about six months. How's life?"

"Usual dismal existence," I reply, leaning against the wall. I've been in enough girls' bathrooms to know that they are exponentially cleaner than mens'.

"Aw, really? Has Snow found a new pet?"

"No. That's the problem."

"Well," Johanna sighs, hiking up her tight skirt so she can rub her feet, flashing me in the process, "if that little girl wins, maybe he will."

"What d'you mean?"

"Your female tribute. Allie, or whatever."

"Annie."

"Yeah, her. My little guy won't stop talking about her. It's kind of annoying, actually." Johanna puffs out her cheeks and leans back on her hands. I keep quiet, because the idea of Annie doing anything that I do greatly disturbs me, but I know that she would be like me, be the one to do it. She loves her family too much, just like I love Mags.

Johanna throws a shoe at me, hitting me squarely in the chest. "Hey, what's that look for! You should be celebrating!" She digs around in her bra until she pulls out a plastic bag with green leaves in it. "Look what I've got..."

"No, thanks."

"Come on! Live a little!" She squishes it between her fingers. "I got it from Blight. He loves it. You should see him when he starts smoking."

"I'd rather keep a clear head until after the Games are over," I say. Johanna shrugs and sticks the drugs back in her cleavage. She hops off the counter and musses her hair in the mirror, rearranging the spikes. Then she stops and just looks at herself, and I walk over and look at us too.

Johanna takes the bag out of her bra again and turns around, opening a bathroom stall and dropping it in the toilet. She flushes and watches as it swirls around and around until it disappears from sight.

"Stupid," she says, and then she walks out of the bathroom. I grab her abandoned shoes and follow her.

We wander around the corridors for a while, not really looking for the entrance back into the big auditorium where the interviews are taking place. They are flickering on every screen in the Capitol; right now Johanna's "little guy" is up. Phyll is his name.

"Who do you think it's going to be this year?" I ask her as we make our way past another television screen and the crowd gawking at it.

"Honestly? Zona," Johanna says, naming her female tribute. "She's fierce and'll do just about anything to win. She kind of reminds me of me, except not as smart. Definitely more manipulative, though."

"She reminds me of Muriel," I say.

"Who?"

"My partner."

"Oh." Johanna knows better than to breech that subject. It's the only thing, including my prostitution, that she won't goad me about. I return the favor. "Who do you think?"

"Arthor."

"Yeah, he's got a good shot too." We stop in front of the screen. The girl from District Twelve is on stage, quiet and shy, skinny and haunting. "We better go fetch our kiddies before the clock strikes twelve," Johanna remarks, skipping back stage completely barefoot.

"Hey, you forget something?" I call after her, holding up the heels.

She looks back and grins. "Keep 'em! They'll look hot on you."

I roll my eyes and toss them in the trash, then head back stage to collect Annie and Quincy as they're leaving. I hear the audience roar and pick up my pace until I see the line of kids filing out from behind the curtains.

Just as the line of tributes comes into view, I see Author violently shove his district partner into Quincy, who runs into Annie as a result. Quincy whips around at Author, clearly confrontational. Mentally cursing, I run over there, grab Quincy's arm, and take him out of the line.

"Do you not understand how stupid that was?" I hiss at him. "That guy's an instigator! He wanted a fight, because he knows he can win it. It'll impair you in the arena." _And Annie too_, I almost say, until I realize that she's standing right there. She looks worried, her brow puckered into a frown, looking like she wants to interfere but doesn't know how. I feel my chest do a funny squeezing thing that I don't really know how to explain.

"I wasn't going to do anything," Quincy snaps at me, obviously irritated. "I'm not that dumb. I know that if I get hurt, the less chance Annie has of winning."

"Just stay away from him. There's something about him...I don't like it." We walk outside and the silence becomes heavy, so I ask them how they did at the interviews.

"Good, I think," Annie says. "The crowd really loved the whole brother-sister drama."

Typical. "I thought they would."

"Wait, didn't you watch the interviews?" Quincy asks.

"No," I answer, quickly thinking up an excuse. "I was waiting for you to come out with the rest of the mentors. We'll watch them tonight, when they're televised."

We make it to the car and find Mags and Ophelia waiting for us. Johanna must have run into them and told them that I'd get the Crestas. On the ride home, Annie focuses on taking down her hair, carefully combing out all the pins and letting the waves wash across her shoulders. I notice that she is extra cautious with the lily I gave her, and that she has it set on her lap the whole time. It makes me feel both warm and cold inside.

When we get back, we watch the reruns. Quincy and Annie both did great; throughout their interviews, their love for each other is obvious. Ophelia is sobbing. She has to leave the room when Arthor recites his fake story about his baby sister Miranda and his blind grandmother. At least, I'm pretty sure it's fake.

Mags turns off the television, and it hits me: the Crestas are going into the arena tomorrow. I look at Quincy and my stomach sinks. I look at Annie and my heart wrenches. The Crestas are going into the arena tomorrow.

And one of them is not coming back.

"Well," Quincy says, breaking the heavy silence, "I guess this is goodbye."

Ophelia erupts into violent tears and tackles him, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Mags folds Annie in a warm embrace and smiles at her, gurgling something. Ophelia pecks Annie on the cheek and rambles on and on. I give Quincy a handshake and look him in the eye. He has the same eyes as Annie, light green with flecks of gold and brown. I'll miss their eyes. "Be careful," I tell him. Like I need to warn him. But he doesn't say anything; he nods and takes a step back.

I turn and find myself face-to-face with Annie.

It hits me like a blow to the chest. My limbs go weak with sorrow; I see tears are gathering in her eyes, and she's fighting to hold them back. She's so different from the past five girls who make a big scene, hoping I'll kiss them and comfort them. She doesn't want a big scene. She isn't expecting a kiss.

So I take her face in my hands and I kiss her.

I do it without thinking, but it's not like that first night when muscle memory took over. It's an overwhelming impulse to kiss her again, just one more time before she goes. I know it will hurt me even more later, but I don't care. It feels perfect now, and it's going to hurt later whether I kiss her now or not.

When I pull away, the tears have spilled over and she's silently crying, looking so sad that I'm immediately sorry I kissed her at all. Why couldn't I have just left her alone? She doesn't need this, not now.

"I had to do that one more time," I tell her honestly, wiping away the tears with my thumb. "Am I really that bad of a kisser?"

She gives a choked laugh. "Really, Finnick? You ruined your own romantic thunder that time."

"Yes, I suppose I did. It was worth it, to hear you laugh." I kiss her nose and step back, taking them both in. Quincy and Annie Cresta, District Four tributes for the 70th Hunger Games. It tears me apart to turn away from them and walk out of the room with Mags and Ophelia, to start collecting sponsors, to get our ducks in a row before the Games start tomorrow morning. Mags grabs my hand and squeezes it gently. When we close the door, I can't help it: a strangled sound escapes from my throat, and a tear rolls down my cheek.

Because the Crestas are are going into the arena tomorrow, and neither one of them are coming back.

* * *

><p><strong>And so! Johanna! Did I do a good job?<strong>

**In the next chapter we're headed into the arena! Are you excited or what?**


	24. AG: The Room: Day One

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **O**ne

* * *

><p>"One hour!"<p>

I absently nod, not taking my eyes off the map. It is a large, confusing thing, dotted with color-coded shapes and lines. There is a big, bowl-shaped body of water in the center, a small plateau marking the Cornucopia and the twelve metal plates that the tributes will arrive on. There are a series of dams on the far end of the lake, and then the bowl-shaped incline slowly descends into miles of flat grassland and sparse woods before abruptly cutting off.

So this is what the arena will look like this year.

There are a mulitude of traps situated around the haphazard geographical formation. I hope Quincy and Annie have enough sense to not stay by the lake, to not hide in the forest on the plateau. They need to head downhill, where there will surely be springs and streams from the leaks in the dams, and go from there.

I look up from the map and rub my eyes. I can hear other mentors bustling about in their cubicles, typing on computers and checking their equipment, pulling any resource they can. I can just slightly hear Wiress and Beetee murmuring to each other in the compartment ahead of mine, but Rynna and Wio are silent behind me. Perhaps they think that Arthor has it handled.

Mags shuffles and plops down next to me. She nervously glances at the screen that will eventually show us our tributes. Then she turns her attention to the screen next to that, which is clicking with numbers. Ophelia is getting us our money, and she's doing a pretty good job considering the Games haven't even started yet.

Then there's the third screen, that shows the relative location of our tributes on the map I was just inspecting; right now, they aren't present on the screen. Annie will show up green, and Quincy will show up red. Next to the third screen is a fourth screen. This is the most vital; this is how we get stuff to our tributes. All we have to do is type what we need into the search box, and it'll pop up on the screen. We select who we want to have it sent to, and it automatically drops a silver parachute and subtracts the amount from our money.

That screen is blank right now too, except for the search box and the mocking, blinking cursor in it.

I call this place the Room, because I will be spending the next however-long-it-takes-for-the-Hunger-Games-to-end here. It is the Room, a place worse than prison.

The speaker crackles again. "Thirty minutes!"

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until the Games start. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Mags pats my arm. "Get some sleep," she says, even though she know I won't. I've been up since three this morning, preparing for the Games, helping Ophelia get money, talking with the mentors of potential allies. Anything I can do to win.

When I shake off her suggestion, she hands me a coffee with cream and sugar.

I sip it for a while, hoping to diffuse some of my tension. It doesn't.

"Fifteen minutes!"

I shoot out of my seat. I have to pee. When I'm in the bathroom, I hear, "Ten minutes!"

By the time I get back to my cubicle, it's "Five minutes!"

A countdown starts on the screen that will show Annie and Quincy live. Ten, nine, eight... I can see their dots on the map. Seven, six, five, four... The numbers leap up, sponsors donating last-minute...

Three.

Two.

One.

The sound of a gong rings through the Room, and the countdown screen flickers to life. Annie and Quincy bolt off of their respective plates, snatching at supplies and fending off their attackers. I'm on the edge of my seat. Mags is biting her nails. This is when they are most helpless; when we are most helpless. We can't do anything for them in all this confusion. I hate the initial bloodbath. I hate it hate it hate it.

Annie hits the girl from District Six on the head with a canteen and Quincy shoves Phyll, the boy from Seven, to the ground. He runs over to Annie, dodging a spear, and grabs her hand. For one horrible second I think they're going to run into the forest along the plateau, but to my relief he's gone toward the incline.

I see Penelope of District Two grab a bow and shoot an arrow at them. Annie notices it and tackles Quincy the ground. It whizzes past their heads harmlessly. Just as Penelope is notching another one, the massive boy from District Eleven has tackled her and wrenching it from her grasp, barreling down the hill when he has his loot.

Annie and Quincy quickly climb down the steep incline, which is made of black rock and has plenty of hand and footholds. I allow myself to relax slightly as they travel. I look at Mags and we share smiles of relief. Our kids survived the bloodbath.

They climb for an hour or two until they hit the bottom of the incline, where it is less steep and there is a stream nearby. Annie praises Quincy on his decision, and they talk about the arena; I'm surprised how quickly they come up with fact that it's shaped like a bowl. It's impressive to say the least.

"_I wonder what's on the other side of the lake_," Annie says, her expression curious on the monitor.

Quincy smiles. "_There's only one way to find out._"

My eyes travel to the map. There is some woods on the other side of the lake, and there are dams. Nothing special, but I suppose that it's better than being sitting ducks.

We get a notice on our map screen whenever someone dies. Nine faces come up, and I can hear their cannon shots from the monitor. Annie and Quincy won't know who died until later this evening, but we get immediate notice.

The boy from Three. The girl from Five. Both from Six. The girl from Eight. The boy from Nine. The girl from Eleven. Both from Twelve.

Nine tributes, already gone. The aura in the Room has gone grim. I think of Nuts and Volts ahead of me; they lost one. Rynna and Wio only have Arthor left. Woof and Cecelia lost their girl. Loria and Gryph lost a tribute, as did Chaff and Seeder. Glora and Colt can go home; they lost both of their tributes. And Haymitch lost both of his on the first day too.

Annie and Quincy decide to pursue the other side of the lake, and they head in that general direction. They walk for the rest of the day, drinking water from the canteen that Annie grabbed. Aside from that they have a loaf of bread, two knives, and a nylon rope.

I hear Haymitch and Chaff from across the Room, talking loud in that drunken way they have, and then the District Twelve mentor lumbers out of the Room. There is no need for him to stay. He will get a train tomorrow and go home, as will the mentors for District Six. They leave soon after him, looking forlorn.

Mags and I watch the Crestas walk until the sun sets and they see who died. Then they take refuge on a rock sheltered by three huge boulders. They eat bread, depleting their food source astronomically. I hope they have better luck hunting for food tomorrow; they tried a few times while walking, but they were unsuccessful.

Our money supply is high now that they've survived the bloodbath. I run my fingers across the keys, ready to send something at a moment's notice should Quincy or Annie need it.

Quincy takes first watch. Annie curls up on the rock and eventually falls asleep. I settle back in my chair and down the rest of the coffee, prepared for the hell that is to come.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Girl from Five, Girl from Six, Boy from Six, Girl from Eight, Boy from Nine, Girl from Eleven, Girl from Twelve, Boy from Twelve.<strong>

**Both from District One, both from District Two, Girl from Three, Quincy and Annie, Arthor, Zona, Phyll, Boy from Eight, Girl from Nine, both from Ten, Boy from Eleven are still alive.**

**And so, the Games have begun! I hope I did an okay job with describing what the Room was like and what was going on on the screen. I used all of the mentors that were named in Catching Fire so I wouldn't have to make up as many (because as you can see, I'm horrible at it). As always, let me know your thoughts!**


	25. AG: The Room: Day Two

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **T**wo

* * *

><p>Nothing much happens for the first few hours after that. Mags and I take turns indulging in short, restless naps, one of us watching the screens at all times. As the time ticks by, Mags goes and gets us more coffee.<p>

Quincy gets up around dawn and I tense, thinking he's seen something, but he's just going to wake Annie up for her shift. He collapses on the ground, dead tired, as Annie walks off her own grogginess.

Annie is absently picking dandelions when the hulking boy from District Eleven erupts from behind a rock and shoots an arrow at her, missing her by several inches. She throws herself on the ground and scrambles up, drawing her knife; but it's too late. The boy has Quincy's throat pressed to his own knife. Quincy is so tired, he doesn't even wake up.

"_Don't move or your brother dies_," Eleven says in his deep, rumbling voice. Annie freezes immediately. I'm biting back a string of curses, clenching my fists as I watch her drop the knife and kick it toward Eleven like he tells her to. The boy from Eleven is twice her size, big, bulky, pure muscle. There's no way she's going to win in a fight, and right now she's dropping all of her defenses on the off chance that he'll spare Quincy's life. He won't, no matter what she does. If I was him, I would have killed Quincy already.

Suddenly, Quincy knocks Eleven's knife away and tackles him to the ground, pumbling him with the ferocity of a wild animal. Eleven starts hitting him with the bow; Quincy takes it and breaks it in half, and they start grappling again. Meanwhile Annie is searching for the knife, leaping at it when she sees it on the ground. Eleven gains the upper hand in his battle with Quincy. He poises an arrow at Quincy's throat.

"_You put up a good fight, District Four. But it is over_."

Annie pounces on Eleven and wraps her arm around his neck, pressing the knife to his thick neck. "_Put the knife down_," she says. I gape at the screen. What is she doing? Just kill him, kill him now before it's too late!

"_It seems as though we are in trouble, flower-girl_," Eleven says. "_I don't think you have the authority to be calling the shots just yet_."

"_Do you not feel the blade under your chin?_"

"_Do you not see the arrow over your brother's head?_" Suddenly the boy from Eleven snaps his head back and hits Annie squarely in the nose. Quincy leaps up with a cry as Eleven speeds away, out of sight. Instead of chasing after the boy, he tends to Annie. She has a broken nose, and screams when he resets it.

I lean back in my chair and let out a breath as they recuperate. "They could have handled that so much better," I tell Mags.

"At least they're alive," she says.

The Crestas decide to continue marching around the lake to the other side, in the opposite direction as the boy from District Eleven, whose name is Kur. They don't go for as long as they did yesterday, on account of Annie's injury; her eyes are swollen shut, and she can only breathe through her mouth. I've noticed that the numbers on our money screen have been ascending slower than usual. As the day progresses, it comes to a complete standstill.

I wonder why Annie didn't just kill Kur when she had the chance. He wouldn't have had time to retaliate if she'd snuck up on him and finished it quick. I ask Mags, and she replies with, "Never killed before."

I remember my first kill, Ivory, and for some reason I'm glad that Annie hesitated.

They make it about halfway around the lake when they decide to stop and make camp. This area is less flat. They find a cave and burrow there. Quincy catches a fat brown rabbit to add to the lizard they managed to snare earlier. Annie finds wild onions and chives. For a while they discuss how they're going to create fire to cook the meat, until suddenly rumbling sounds throughout the arena, leeching through the speakers and grumbling in the Room. I share a look of bewilderment with Mags. What is this?

The ground in the arena begins to shake, and I realize: it's an earthquake. The cave they're staying starts to collapse; I leap out of my seat; Quincy grabs Annie and pulls her out just before it crumbles to the ground. They get down and curl up, jostled for two minutes by the earthquake.

Eventually the earthquake subsides, and they struggle to unearth themselves from the rubble. Sadly they scavenge. Two cannons go off. I see that it's Johanna's boy tribute, Phyll, and the boy from District Ten.

Annie and Quincy walk some more until they discover another cave. This time Annie takes the first watch despite her injuries, and Quincy goes to sleep. Neither of them eat anything, which they will regret in the morning.

I sit back and rub my eyes as Annie sits, alert and weary, on the screen. I doubt that she will be picking anymore flowers during her watch after the ordeal with Kur. Idly I wonder where the boy from District Eleven is. Not for the first time, I wish I could see the other tributes' locations on the screen.

Johanna ducks into my cubicle, then plops down on my lap. I let her sit there. It's not like she's going to move if I tell her to anyway, and I kind of feel bad for her. Losing tributes is always the worst part of mentoring, and Johanna is the newest of us.

"Shouldn't you be looking after Zona?" I say, even though I know it's kind of cruel.

"Blight's on duty. She's with the Careers; I don't think she's going to die any time soon." Johanna pauses. "You know the boy from Five? Arthor?"

"Yes."

"He stole a bunch of equipment from the Careers and left on his own. Make sure that your runts are careful." Johanna isn't really supposed to be telling me this unless our tributes are allied, but the information is welcome anyway.

"I will."

It's silent again. I'm watching the screen over her shoulder, watching Annie pace back and forth. Johanna follows my gaze. "Zona killed the boy from District Ten."

I don't say anything, but I know it's a warning.

"Phyll was crushed by a giant rock."

"I'm sorry," I say. And I mean it.

Johanna nods. "Earthquakes." She spits it out like a curse.

"Earthquakes," I sigh.

"Earthquakes," Mags agrees.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Phyll and the boy from District Ten.<strong>

**Both from District One, both from District Two, Girl from Three, Quincy and Annie, Arthor, Zona, Boy from Eight, Girl from Nine, Girl from Ten, and Kur are still alive.**

**Sorry again for another short chapter! I promise that the next one will make up for it!**


	26. AG: The Room: Day Three

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong> T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **T**hree

* * *

><p>Mags snoozes away in the chair next to me, curled in a way that can't be comfortable for her old bones. I wish that we had another female victor who was fit to mentor. At seventy-six, Mags is just too old to deal with the stress.<p>

Who knows? Maybe Annie will win this year.

The thought makes me chuckle, then I sit and stare numbly at the screen as she and Quincy trek through the arena. They're worse off than they were yesterday, though Annie's face has stopped swelling. The earthquake took all of their provisions; the Crestas are weak and lethargic, half starved. Mags's words from yesterday ring in my head: _At least they're alive_. But it's only a matter of time.

They take a break next to a big rock, groaning about their hunger. They've already discussed every possible solution, so I suppose they think that complaining is the only thing to do. Heat and fatigue have made them grouchy, and their conversation quickly escalates into an argument.

"_Don't yell at me_!" Quincy is shouting. "_This isn't _my _fault_!"

Annie stiffens like he just struck her. "_What's that supposed to mean?_"

"_I'm not the idiot who went and broke her nose and caused us delay! If we hadn't wasted yesterday we'd probably be on the other side of the lake by now!_" I glance at the map. That is a gross estimate, and a very inaccurate one. Though I can understand his frustration: because of Annie's injury, they are much more defenseless.

I notice something else too. The area they are in is bright red: a trap devised by the Gamemakers. I curse under my breath. If they don't stop arguing soon, there's no doubt in my mind that this will be their final words to each other.

"_The only reason I broke my nose was because you were too weak to take down Kur_!"

"_If you hadn't been fooling around and picking flowers like a little girl he wouldn't have snuck up on us in the first place_!"

A cannon goes off, startling even me. Curiously I look at the screen and am even more surprised to see the boy from District Eleven, Kur, has died. I guess someone was strong enough, or clever enough, to defeat him in battle.

"_Who do you think that was?_" Annie asks.

"_It doesn't matter, we'll find out tonight_," Quincy says coldly.

Annie looks like she's going to retort, but then her eyes fill with tears and she begins to cry. This astounds me even more than Kur's death. This is no time for her to _cry_! What is she _doing_?

I look at the map again, and suddenly I understand.

"_What's the point? I hate this stupid game. I want to go home_," Annie sobs, making no effort to conceal her tears.

Quincy looks disgusted with her. "_Yes, blubber like a baby. That will help_!"

"_Why do you have to be such a jerk_?"

And suddenly Annie is angry and they're back to arguing again. I wake up Mags and explain the situation. "Do you think there's anything we can do?"

Mags shakes her head, looking as helpless as I feel.

"_Fine! If I'm so useless, why don't we just end it here?_" Annie storms back the way they'd come.

"_Fine! You have fun in this wasteland, and I'll be enjoying a nice swim in the lake_," Quincy calls after her, shaking his head and pressing forward. Mags and I watch, horror-struck, as the inseparable siblings diverge in opposite directions, influenced by this trap the Gamemakers have constructed. It must have manipulated their way of thinking or their emotions or something.

I turn to the supplies screen, but I don't know what to type into the search box. Antidote for mind control? I can already tell how many hits that's going to get. I hope this trap wears away soon.

"Might be good," Mags croons. I can see her point; maybe this is a good thing, the tributes splitting up. They'll be weaker, sure, but they won't be together when one or the other dies. That's a good thing for us, right? Right?

One side of the screen follows Quincy, the other Annie. They both look ready to collapse. Annie does first, toppling over near a bush of berries that they decided not to gather since they didn't know if it was poisonous or not. Now Annie has stopped caring, whether by the Gamemaker's design or by something else, and she dauntlessly sticks her hand into the thorny bush, extracting a handful of crimson berries smeared with blood from her hand.

"Mags, she's going to eat them," I say frantically as Annie tips her head back and pours the first handful of berries into her mouth. I don't know what the berries are either. We watch as Annie gathers more with enthusiasm. Mags has my hand in an iron grip. I don't know if she's trying to keep me anchored here or if she's trying to keep herself from panicking. For all we know, Annie could be dying at this very moment.

Quincy collapses on the other half the screen, but no cannon goes off. He picks himself up a few minutes later and continues on.

Annie lays on her back, looking up at the sky contently. Her arms are bleeding and the berry bush is completely stripped. She closes her eyes with a smile, and for one horrible second I think she's died.

Then her eyes fly open and she scampers off the ground, searching the vicinity frantically. She gathers her few possessions and jogs away, scanning the area around her. Mags elbows me and smiles. I smile back, relieved. Annie is looking for Quincy, who is less than an hour away. The trap has worn off.

She finds him as he crawls up the mountain, but something's wrong. When Annie calls his name, Quincy is just as spiteful as before. Annie seems as perplexed as Mags and I are, and she seems to reach the conclusion before we do. What did Annie do that is different than Quincy?

She ate the berries.

Annie finds a bush and gathers until her canteen is filled. Then she hurries back over and begs Quincy to eat them, promising that he'll feel better, demonstrating that they're not poisoned. Eventually Quincy does, influenced by his hunger and Annie's new-found vitality. I wonder what is in those berries that fills her with such energy, that beat away the Gamemaker's trap.

"_Annie!_" Quincy wheels around and gazes at his sister as though she is the most precious of gems, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Both of them are back to normal, finally. As much as I hate to admit it, they are better together.

The Crestas embrace and celebrate. Mags nudges me and points to our funds, which have sky-rocketed. The audience really loves this brother-sister stuff.

"Now we're in business," I say, grinning, to Mags. I think silently. What do the Crestas need, right now? That one's easy: they need a way to procure food, but they need something that won't be easily lost in case there's another earthquake. The berries may have saved them this time, but we can't count on them to always be there.

The answer comes to me from my days helping Ore with his odd hobby of cultivating fish. Pheromones, a chemical that attracts one organism to another of the same species. I type "rabbit pheromones" into the search box and come up with a number of vials in every size and concentration. It's not cheap, but I have a feeling that it will come in handy.

Seconds later a silver parachute lands behind Quincy, and our funds plummet. I only hope that one of them can guess what it is or at least what it's for.

Annie does, sort of. She thinks it's urine, but she understands the basic functions of it. She explains it's uses to her brother. Quincy seems delighted at the prospects of an easy meal, then skeptical. "_What if there's another earthquake? If we spread it on the ground, we would've wasted it_."

"_Well, then I guess there's only one way to make sure we don't_," Annie says.

Quincy wrinkles his nose, ceasing his inspection of the vial to look at his sister. "_Annie, you don't mean_..."

Annie nods her head, slowly, smiling.

"_Ew! No!_"

"_Come on, Quincy!_"

"_There's no way I'm covering myself in pee!_"

Mags and I are hooting with laughter, trying to contain ourselves lest we attract the attention of the other mentors. Annie and Quincy manage a compromise: Quincy will wear it one day, and Annie the next time they need food. Annie, giggling the whole time, splashes some of the pheromones on her brother. Later, they have a nice brown rabbit to show for it, though Quincy looks disgruntled as he holds it out for Annie's examination.

"_Well, I guess it's rabbit pee_," Annie snickers. "_Let's get a fire started and...and_..."

"_Annie? Annie?_"

"_Um...fire started_..."

I shoot out of my seat as Annie falls to the ground while Quincy shouts her name. Only seconds later Quincy crumples to his knees and keels over, landing in a heap beside his sister. Mags is shouting at me as I race out of the cubicle and sprint down the aisles, looking for the door that reads _District Seven_.

Johanna jumps out of her seat when she sees me; Blight is asleep next to her. "Finnick?" she says, alarmed. "What are you doing here?" I only come to her cubicle after both of my tributes are dead.

I grab her shoulders and shake her. "Johanna! I need you to tell me: are the berries poisonous?"

"What are you talking about?" she yells, wiggling out of my grasp. "What berries?"

"They have thorns and they're red - look, look, they're on the screen right there by Zona!" I point at them on the screen while Blight is telling me to get out, ordering Johanna to call the Peacekeepers, accusing me of cheating. Johanna ignores him completely.

"Finnick, stop! Get away from there, you're not - "

"Just listen to me!" I hiss through my teeth. I can hear the thuds of the Peacekeepers boots, I need to hurry up and confirm this. I need to know before I go back to Mags, before I hear the cannon shots. I just need to know. "What are the berries?"

Johanna must see something in my eyes, because she does the impossible: she shuts up and listens. "It's a hybrid. They use the plant in morphling."

"Is it poisonous?"

My heart skips a beat when she opens her mouth and says, "No."

I'm so relieved, and I don't know why. Annie and Quincy could still both be dead; they could have died while I was trying to find Johanna's cubicle. They could be dying right now. At least one of them is going to die, eventually. But I'm still so relieved that my knees go weak, and I shoot Johanna a quick thank you and kiss her on the cheek before bolting back to my own torture-chamber, my own Room. The Peacekeepers yell after me, but Johanna somehow dissuades them from active pursuit.

When I arrive I'm grinning and flushed, prepared to relay the message to Mags. I freeze when I see our two grim visitors, and my smile slips and falls.

Rynna and Wio, the mentors for District Five.

I glance at the monitor, and my horrible suspicions are confirmed. Arthor is dragging Quincy along the ground, carrying Annie on his back. For some reason, he has chosen to ally with them, perhaps even save them, instead of killing them at their most vulnerable.

Rynna holds out a hand for me to shake, looking as weary and confused as I feel. "Hey there. Looks like we're partners."

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Kur<strong>

**Both from District One, both from District Two, Girl from Three, Quincy and Annie, Arthor, Zona, Boy from Eight, Girl from Nine, and Girl from Ten are still alive.**

**This chapter was a little longer, although I think it ended in an awkward place. Oh, well. Tell me what you think anyway. ;)**


	27. AG: The Room: Day Four

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **F**our

* * *

><p>It quickly becomes apparent that Rynna and Wio know as much about their tribute as I do. Perhaps even less. It's obvious they have no liking of the kid; if anything, they seem almost afraid of him. I don't bother to hide my suspicions, and Rynna, who does most of the talking, doesn't bother to hide the truth.<p>

"Arthor is a sociopath," she deadpans. "He kills mercilessly, efficiently, and he _enjoys _it. He's very independent too; he did everything for the ceremonies and the interviews. He basically insinuated that Wio and I were there because of protocol. I have no idea why he went through all this trouble to save your tributes, Finnick, but I know that it can't be anything good."

Wio tugs on my sleeve and whispers in my ear. "He trained for this. His father trained him. He was trained."

Rynna watches grimly. "I think...he wanted to be picked for the Games. He wouldn't have volunteered, but I think he wanted to be picked."

Arthor takes Annie and Quincy to a remote cave and starts a fire. He skins, guts, and cooks their rabbit. Then he starts to eat it.

Annie wakes up first. She's very confused, but she doesn't try to attack Arthor. She asks him a bunch of questions while she nervously waits for Quincy to awake: _How did you find us? Why aren't you with the Careers? How long have we been out? _Arthor answers them all honestly, explaining how he found the Crestas collapsed, how he snuck away from the Careers, that they'd only been out a couple hours.

Then Annie takes a deep breath and asks the big one. "_Why didn't you kill us?_"

Arthor is undaunted by the gravity of this question. "_You could be of some use to me. No need for you to go to waste_," he says.

Rynna raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, _What did I tell you?_

After Quincy wakes up and they eat the rest of the rabbit, Arthor takes first watch. He reveals his own secret weapon: the very same berries that Annie and Quincy consumed. Adrenaline berries, he calls them. They open up the part of your brain that produces adrenaline. They're the main refined ingredient in morphine. They're highly addictive.

"_Are you sure you should be eating them if they're so addictive?_" Quincy asks.

Arthor gives him a wry smile. "_I'm not worried about it. When I get out of this arena I can buy enough morphling to satisfy my needs for three lifetimes_."

I share a glance with Mags, and I am brought back to a time on a train, five years ago, when I was young and foolish and Mags saw in me a victor.

_When I get out of this arena_. When, not if.

* * *

><p>While our tributes are sleeping, the four of us devise a plan. It is during this time that I realize there are only nine tributes left: the Crestas, the pair from District One, the pair from District Two, Arthor, Zona, the boy from Eight and the girl from Nine.<p>

While Rynna and Wio don't seem particularly inclined to help Arthor win, it's still their duty, so Mags and I don't share much with them regarding information. Just the bare necessities. Then Mags and Rynna both take a nap, leaving Wio and me watching the events on screen unfold.

Wio is silent, but not in the way that Mags is. I do most of the talking because people have trouble understanding Mags since her stroke messed up her brain. Rynna does most of the talking because Wio can't pay attention long enough to finish a sentence.

I catch his gaze wandering around the room aimlessly. He looks at Rynna a lot; sometimes he reaches over and strokes her vivid red hair. He gently plays with Mags's silver braid. Sometimes he gets up and wanders around the cubicle. I've had to stop him from walking right out a few times. I don't think that he is supposed to. There's no telling if he'll ever find his way back.

Rynna wakes up and coaxes Wio to sleep. He complies with the same obedience that he offered toward me when I demanded he come back inside the cubicle. "Does he always do what everybody tells him?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"Hardly," Rynna laughs. "Only to certain people. He listens to me because he likes my hair, and he would listen to Mags for the same reason."

"What about me?"

Rynna gives me a small smile. "He likes your eyes."

The sun rises on the screen, and our tributes move along. Arthor decides to accompany Annie and Quincy to the other side of the lake, since it's a good idea as any. It's plain to me that Arthor drives the Cresta siblings crazy, but there's nothing they can do to get rid of him at this point. He has weapons hidden in every article of clothing on his body, and the skills to use them.

But there are some benefits. Arthor also has an abundance of food for them to eat, though all he seems to want to consume are the adrenaline berries that he forces Annie and Quincy to pick for him.

The day goes on and they get closer to the edge of the lake, the ground becomes level and scruffy trees crop up. They arrive at a good sized tree as the sun beats down and they take a break. Arthor circles the tree with a contemplating gaze, finally stopping in front of it. "_Annie, come climb up here and see where we are_," he orders.

Quincy gives him an incredulous look. "_Why don't you do it?_"

"_Because I'm no good at climbing_."

"_Neither is Annie. She might fall_."

"_So?_"

Quincy stands up suddenly, but Annie grabs his arm. "_It's fine, I'll do it_," she says with a look at him. I let out a breath that I didn't realize I've been holding. At least Annie senses that Arthor is more dangerous than he might seem. Quincy's temper is too hot for him to be an ally to the tribute from District Five.

They travel all day, stopping only to scout their position and to gather more berries for Arthor, who complains constantly about his supply being too low. It's around midday and I'm getting ready to fall asleep, just watching them walk and bicker, when suddenly three cannons go off in succession. Annie, Quincy, and Arthor are all frozen, looking like deer caught in headlights. Quickly I glance at the dead-tributes screen and see that the girl from One, the boy from Two, and the girl from Nine are dead.

"_Do you smell that_?" Arthor says suddenly, narrowing his eyes at the horizon.

"_Smell what_?" Annie asks. There is a pause as they sniff the air. I glance over at the monitor with the map of the arena and see that the area next to them is highlighted in red.

"_Earthquake_?" Quincy guesses.

"_Probably. If we can smell it, it probably happened pretty close to here. From the north judging by the breeze_." Whoa. Arthor's analyzing is really impressive.

"_But that's where the Careers are_," Annie points out. I suppose that explains why One and Two just died. Nine was probably camping out nearby, or perhaps One and Two were chasing her.

"_Exactly. The Gamemakers are trying to flush us out, get us to come together and fight. We should keep our guards up_," Arthor explains, probably quite accurately. He pauses for a moment and, to my surprise, hands the Crestas each a thin, sharp blade. "_Take these. If we meet anybody_..."

Rynna and Wio, who are both awake, looked as shocked as I feel. Why would Arthor part with any of his weapons? Though they are allied, trusting Quincy and Annie would be a mistake. Perhaps he expects someone or something more threatening than those two. If this is the case, it does not bode well. Apprehensively I wake up Mags and fill her in on everything that's happened since she was on duty. I believe these next few hours are going to be important. A climax of the Games, even.

I watch nervously as the three dots that represent our tributes slowly get closer to the big red highlighted area that signifies the earthquake. Finally we are able to witness the wreckage on the screen. There are rocks and mounds of upturned dirt everywhere. Trees lay flat on the ground, their roots reaching out in all directions. In the center of the destruction is a crack that is about twenty feet long and a bit more than a foot wide. It is a large, dark mouth in the earth. There is no telling how deep the abyss is. Everything inside is black.

The three stop and behold the debris with awe. Whatever is generating these spontaneous earthquakes is unnatural and mighty.

Arthor quickly gets impatient. He shoves Annie forward, ushering them along. "_Come on_," he snaps. Annie stumbles and turns to glare at him, looking irked. But I know she will not do anything about it because she doesn't consider his rudeness a big deal. It is Quincy who I am watching, Quincy who I am mentally pleading with. _Don't do anything, just let it go, just let it go_...

He doesn't let it go.

"_Don't touch her_," he says, clapping a hand on Arthor's shoulder in a threatening manner. Mags groans beside me, placing her head in her hands. I know she was begging in her mind too.

"_What are you going to do about it_?" Arthor taunts with a smirk. He pokes Annie on the cheek with his index finger. She scowls and slaps his hand away. I'm hoping with every fiber of my being that Quincy does not take the bait, that he just leaves it alone.

He punches Arthor in the face.

"_Quincy! It's not a big_ - " Annie begins, but something she sees in Arthor's expression makes her stop. The cameras don't catch it because soon the two boys are a flurry of fists and feet. It is the fight that I've been waiting for ever since the interviews. Annie can only stand there, dazed and astounded, as her brother and their "ally" beat each other to a pulp.

With a feral growl, Arthor shoves Quincy to the ground and in one swift motion reaches for his sword. Annie is suddenly there standing between them, shielding her brother from Arthor's blade. This is such a stupid move that I can't even comprehend what is going through her mind. She didn't even have the sense to draw her own sword! I want to look away from the screen because I'm sure that Arthor is going to kill them both, but I can't. I sit and watch.

They are showing this all over Panem. I know because I can almost feel that the entire city is holding their breath like we are, waiting for Arthor to brutally murder the Cresta siblings. But after several seconds pass and he does nothing, Annie finally breaks the silence by speaking.

"_You guys are being ridiculous_," she says harshly, never taking her eyes off Arthor. "_Look what you've done to yourselves. Now we're going to have to camp here. You two can't travel in your conditions. You've set us back another day for no reason. Way to go_."

Arthor sneers at her and eases out of a fighting stance, and the tension is broken. He is irritated but he is not going to kill them. Not yet. "_Just scrape your brother off the ground so we can go. I don't want to camp here_."

"_Why?_" Annie asks, looking around at the wreckage. "_If there's another earthquake, it's not likely to happen here_." This is, of course, a logical statement. However, I see that Annie has still failed to realize just how illogical the Hunger Games are. It's plain to me that if the three of them camp there, that is _exactly _where the next earthquake is going to happen.

"_That will start to stink in a few hours_," Arthor responds, pointing to a giant boulder. Someone has met their demise in this area, and bits of their corpse are shrewn around the scene. A hovercraft has probably already harvested most of the body, but some pieces were too small to bother with. The contents of my stomach twist and threaten to come back up. I wonder if this is what Johanna's boy, Phyll, looked like when he died. Once again I am amazed at Johanna's strength. I can't even think about what a state I'd be in if Quincy died in that manner. I refuse to think about what would happen if Annie did.

"_Maybe we should walk a little farther_," Annie relents, eyeing the mess with a mixture of disgust and horror. "_Come on, Quincy_."

She helps him off the ground and the three of them continue toward the other side of the lake in silence. As the sun descends below the horizon, Quincy finds a suitable cave and they eat food from Arthor's pack.

While Arthor's preparing the food, I watch him slip something into a helping of it. Quincy and Annie are watching the update of the dead tributes flash across the sky, so they don't catch it. I frantically turn to Wio, but he just shrugs his shoulders. Rynna is asleep, but I don't need to wake her up to know that they definitely have not sent him poison. Then again, Arthor could probably make his own concoction out of what he finds in the arena. But that doesn't make any sense; I haven't seen him gathering anything. The only way he could have gotten a hold of poison is if he made it before he met up with the Crestas.

Or if he got it from the Cornucopia.

Mags jumps into alertness when I ram my fist on the desk. She gurgles something that sounds like my name, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Wio curls up in his seat, watching me with the weariness of a child expecting punishment.

I feel so idiotic. How did I not see this coming? I have no idea what Arthor grabbed from the Cornucopia, and I never thought to ask!

"Rynna," I say, shaking her awake, "what did Arthor take with him when he left the Careers?"

"Hm?" she yawns, taking a second to think. "We don't know. It was too dark for the cameras to really catch anything. All we saw were a bunch of weapons, food, water, bandages; you know, the usual."

"Any medicines or anything?"

"Tons. Arthor is as careful as he is violent; you should have deduced this by now." Rynna frowns at me. "Why? What's going on?"

I glare at the screen as Arthor hands Quincy the contaminated food. "I think he just poisoned one of my tributes."

Mags turns deathly pale. "Ant?" she garbles. I shake my head, knowing that she's trying to say _antidote _but is too discombobulated to get it out.

"I didn't see what he used." The four of us survey the screen as Quincy takes first watch, sitting outside of the cave rigidly while Annie and Arthor lay down to go to sleep. He is still upset about earlier, no doubt.

I can't think of anything to do. There's nothing I can do but watch as Quincy slowly dies from the inside out. But why only Quincy? Why not kill two birds with one stone? And why poison? If Arthor wanted to kill the Crestas, he could have done so earlier in the clearing. So maybe he's not killing Quincy.

There's too many maybes in the situation for my liking.

Mags wrings her hands beside me while we nervously watch the screen. The atmosphere in our cubicle is tense and strained. I watch Quincy on the screen, waiting for his cannon to boom. What will Annie do when she wakes up and discovers that her brother died during the night? At the very least it will be a peaceful death without gore. Will Arthor tell her that he was poisoned? I don't see why not. I don't see why.

What is he thinking?

My eyes turn to the cave-camera's feed, the one showing the dark enclosure in which Annie and Arthor lay. I watch Annie toss and turn for a bit, until finally she settles on her side facing Arthor. The room is too dark to see their faces or hear their hushed voices, but I know they are having a conversation. What are they talking about?

I look at Quincy's feed. His eyes are drooping; the grip on his knife is relaxing. Is this it for him? Will his cannon be the thing that interrupts their conversation, a conversation that is for some reason making me very irritable?

Arthor moves in the cave-camera feed. He leans toward Annie until he is whispering something in her ear. She shudders as he draws back and lays down. I feel Mags's hand wrap around my own, prying it from the arm of my chair. I didn't even realize that I was gripping it so tight. What is this feeling in my gut? It's the same feeling I get while I wait for the tributes to finish visiting their family and friends, except more profound. Am I jealous?

Quincy's eyes close and his breathing becomes deep and regular. Contempt, even a little bit of hatred for Annie rises to the surface, blotting out everything else. She's having a romantic conversation while her brother could be dying right outside the cave! And with her brother's murderer, no less!

"I don't think it's poison," Rynna says, breaking the heavy silence in the room. "I can't see any reason why Arthor would poison Quincy outright, but if they decided to turn on him...well, Annie wouldn't be able to. Not while Quincy was asleep."

"Drugged," Mags agrees.

Drugged. Arthor drugged Quincy. I remember how Quincy drugged Annie before the start of the Games. The irony is too much. Something snaps inside of me and I start to laugh, hysterically, loudly, until my face is sunblister-red and tears are streaming down my face. Rynna looks rather frightened, and Wio is hiding himself behind her. Even Mags seems a bit concerned for my sanity.

Johanna storms in, scowling. "I can here you laughing all the way down the hall. What's so funny?"

I don't - can't - answer her, which only makes her more agitated. She slaps the back of my head, then reclines my chair as the guffaws finally begin to subside. "You need to get some rest. Seriously."

As she walks out, I realize that I haven't slept in two days.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Girl from One, Boy from Two, and Girl from Nine.<strong>

**The Boy from One, Girl from Two, Annie and Quincy, Arthor, Zona, and Boy from Eight are still alive.**

**This chapter was a little bit of a filler, but the next chapter is going to be really really exciting. This one was kind of a set up from the next. Still, tell me your thoughts!**


	28. AG: The Room: Day Five

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **F**ive

* * *

><p>I don't know how long I've been asleep. It seems like forever, and it seems like no time at all. For the first night since I can remember, I don't dream. Then, suddenly, I hear a phrase erupt through the darkness of my consciousness like the beating of a drum. <em>Finish. Finnick. Finish. Finnick. Finish. Finish. Finish<em>...

"Finnick!"

My eyes snap open and I'm grasping for a weapon, finding nothing. My heart thunders in my chest until I recognize Mags looming over me, shaking my shoulder in a panicked state. Then I realize I'm in the Room and that Mags in any kind of frenzy is not a good thing.

"What? What is it?" I shoot out of the chair and go to the screen, where a rumbling is coming through the speakers. Rynna tells me what's going on, but I don't need an explanation to know. There is an earthquake happening right now, and all three of our tributes are asleep in a cave.

"We need to get them up. Now!" I say, but just as the words leave my mouth I see movement from the cave-cam and Annie is up, scrambling over Arthor and clawing her way out of the collapsing shelter. The four of us can only sit on the edge of our seats and watch as she fruitlessly tries to shake Quincy awake, screaming his name over the din. Finally, as a cannon goes off and the boy from Eight's face is plastered on the dead-tribute's screen, Annie grabs Quincy under the arms and drags him away from the cave just as it gives out.

A canon goes off.

The girl from District Two's face pops up on the screen.

Not Arthor's. Arthor is not dead, yet a cave has just fallen on him. Is there a glitch in the transmission device that's giving us our information? I don't know, but I can tell that Mags and the District Five mentors are just as perplexed as I am.

The cameras go fuzzy as the earthquake transcends upon our tributes, and we can't really see what's going on. But another cannon does not go off.

The earthquake lasts for three minutes. It takes another minute for the cameras to start working again, and by then the Crestas are stirring. I don't see Arthor anywhere. Perhaps he is just hanging on to life.

Annie sits up. Then, suddenly, the ground around her crumbles and a crack appears, several feet wide and who knows how deep. I leap out of my chair, her name on my lips, just as she grasps the edge of the abyss and begins to pull herself up.

A figure appears out of the shadows and walks to the crack where Annie is emerging. The scarce light of the moon reveals the merciless face of Zona.

"No," I mutter, pushing my way past Wio to get to the search screen. "No, no, no, no, no..." My fingers are poised over the keys, but I have no idea what to type. The cursor blinks at me, once, twice, and I look back Mags to see she is just as hopelessly lost as I am. Once again, there is nothing we can do for our tribute. There is nothing I can do to save Annie Cresta from certain death.

Zona kicks Annie's hands away from the edge, and even though I knew it was coming I still can't contain myself from shouting her name even as she screams for her life.

Then Zona takes a step toward Quincy and I feel a sort of determined inferno erupt in my chest. If there is one thing I've never been more sure of, it is that District Four is going to have a victor this year. I will make sure that happens or I will die trying.

But what can I do? What can I do? Quincy is in a drug-induced sleep and Zona is two steps away with a machete. What can I do? Again, the cursor mocks me.

"Finnick!"

My head snaps around so quickly that I think my neck might break. I blink at the live-feed screen that Mags is grinning at so radiantly and I can't believe my eyes. Annie is flying out of the abyss as though there was a trampoline at the bottom. She hits the ground with a hard thump and rolls forward a couple paces, taking a moment to catch her breath. Then she sees Zona and her brother and shrieks, "_No_!"

"There must have been a force field at the bottom of the crack!" Rynna says with glee, smiling from ear to ear. I don't know why she's happy. Perhaps she's become fond of Annie and come to think of her as a tribute of her own, or maybe it's just Mags's and my mood influencing her.

Now that the initial shock of Annie's return is over, I see just how bad Zona's looking. She's got one arm in a makeshift sling and a long, jagged cut over her eye. She's practically bald except for a few tuffs of burnt hair. What happened to her, I have no idea. All I know is that Annie, while she may not be the best fighter, has a chance.

Annie stands up unsteadily, brandishing her short sword. "_Get away from him_."

Zona laughs, stepping away from her unconscious target and turning toward the more threatening one. "_Well, well, well, you're harder to kill than I thought. I didn't think you'd make the top eight_."

"_The top eight?_" Annie repeats, surprised. Obviously this is news to her, but at the moment it's not important. At least, I don't think so. "_Who's left?_"

"_You, me, your brother, Opal, Penelope, the boy from Eight, the girl from Nine, Arthor, and that little twit from three as far as I know. But then again, two more cannons just went off_," says Zona. I know already that the girl from Nine, the boy from Eight, and Penelope, the girl from Two, are dead.

"_So there are six people left_," Annie whispers.

"_And it's about to be four!_"Zona roars, lunging at Annie. It barely catches her in the shoulder, but this is enough to stall Annie so she can only block the next attack. Zona, even injured, is very fast and very lethal.

They push on each other's blades. Their strength is equally matched, but their ethics are not. Zona kicks Annie in the back of the legs and her knees give out. She rolls out of the way as Zona brings the tip of the knife down into the earth. Instead of sinking into Annie's chest, it sinks into the dirt.

Annie kicks at her shins and Zona leaps back, abandoning her knife. Scrambling off the ground and onto her feet, Annie pulls it out. Zona smirks in approval and pulls out another knife from her belt. "_Smart one_," she says. "_This is going to be fun_."

Zona pounces and even I have trouble catching the little silver dagger she throws at Annie just before she attacks her. The blade hits its mark and sinks into Annie's arm. Annie barely manages to block Zona's next attack now that her arm is basically useless. Things are not looking up.

My fingers balance on top of the keys, but I know that a parachute now would be a stupid idea. Zona might get it or Annie might just miss it. Either way, it would be more of a hindrance than a help.

Annie rams into Zona and sends them both to the ground, where they brawl for a few seconds before Zona shoves Annie off of her and gets up. "_You're more annoying than the girl from Three_," she says, lifting her blade for the kill.

Suddenly Quincy groans and Zona freezes. Slowly she lowers the knife, a slow, sadistic smile crossing her features. "_No, I'm going to let you live for a bit longer. You're going to watch me cut your brother up into itsy bitsy pieces instead. And once you hear his screams and see him beg for mercy, I'm going to do the same to you_."

Zona laughs and makes her way over to Quincy, kneeling down beside him. Annie struggles to stand after her beating, but her legs won't carry her. Mags buries her face into my shoulder as Quincy starts screaming, jerked from his drugged stupor by Zona's blade. I want to but can't look away as Zona dismembers Quincy's finger and throws it in front of Annie.

Annie, driven by rage, gets off the ground and punches Zona in the face. Her head snaps to the side and she is tensing up in retaliation just before the grumbling of an earthquake starts. Zona throws Annie off of her and sprints down the side of the incline like a wild animal, so frantic that she does not even realize she running in the wrong direction. Soon she is engulfed by debris. A cannon goes off, and her face comes up on the dead-tributes screen.

Annie throws herself over Quincy to protect him. They are on the fringe of the avalanche, relatively unharmed by the time it is over. Annie digs herself out of the dirt and looks at Quincy rather helplessly. I go to type a long list of medical supplies into the search box, but Mags holds my hand to keep me from doing so. "Wait," she says. I open my mouth to object, but she puts her hand over it. "Trust me."

Annie begins tearing the sleeves of her shirt into strips to use as bandages. I watch wearily, waiting for the next surprise. All that sleep that Johanna convinced me I needed feels like it never happened. I could curl up and sleep for a straight week right now.

I jump when Rynna puts a hand on my shoulder. I completely forgot that she is still here. Wio is absent; he must have gone back to his own cubicle to assist Arthor. "Good luck, Finnick, Mags," she says, giving us a nod. Then she turns and heads back to the cubicle behind ours.

Once again, I'm blind to Arthor's already unpredictable actions.

On the screen, someone is coming down the mountain. Annie draws her weapon and prepares for a fight, one that she will most likely lose in the battered state she's in. However, as the figure draws near, I see that it is the puny girl from District Three. She looks far worse off than Annie does, but - wisely - Annie still doesn't relax.

"_What do you want, Evee?_" she says. It's unnerving that she already knows who the girl is. That will make her harder to eliminate.

"_You owe me_," the girl, Evee, replies immediately.

"_What? I do not_," Annie says, as if this is a personal affront.

"_The avalanche. I caused it. I saved your life and your brother's life. I killed Zona_," Evee lists off. "_You owe me_."

Annie asks the question I've been waiting for. "_How do I know you're not lying?_"

Evee explains how she did it in great detail, using terminology that makes my head hurt. In the end Annie invites her to use the supplies she managed to save from the earthquake. I can tell Annie pities her; she has several severe coughing fits over the duration of her explanation, and she looks like she's about to collapse.

The girl from District Three also washes and bandages Quincy's hand with some degree of skill while Annie starts a fire and cooks the food. Annie is grateful as she hands Evee some food. Evee eats like an animal, tearing into the food with a ferocity that does not fit her slim figure. They eat silently, anxiously waiting for the faces to show in the sky. I am too. Annie is under the mistaken impression that Arthor is dead, and as long as she believes this she is utterly defenseless.

Finally the Capitol anthem erupts through the arena and the first face comes up in the sky. The girl from District Two...Zona...the boy from Eight...and finally the girl from Nine. If Annie is afraid, she hides it well. But the important thing now is that she knows the greatest threat is still out there, looming, recovering, waiting.

"_It seems there are only five of us left_," Evee says with a sigh. "_The three of us and two Careers. Perhaps we should split up_."

"_I think that would be a good idea. I know it's selfish, but I don't want to be the one who has to kill you_," Annie replies. Evee doesn't take offense to this; I'm sure that she's realized by now that if it came down to a fight between the two of them, Annie would be the victor. Although after five days in the arena, Annie is starting to look a bit battered. She's dirty and covered in tiny scratches and blood. The area under her eyes and her nose is bruised from her broken nose. She can barely move her right arm; there is a deep red stain at the shoulder and I can see the gash in her bicep where Zona threw the tiny blade. There's no telling what kinds of wounds are hiding behind the fabric of her outfit. Fighting anyone, even someone as weak as Evee, is going to be a chore.

"_I feel the same. I wish you and your brother luck, Annie_." Evee stands up. "_If I don't win, I hope one of you does_."

Then she melts into the shadows, leaving Annie sitting alone in the night with her unconscious brother to protect.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Penelope and the Boy from Eight.<strong>

**Recap: Opal, Evee, Annie, Quincy, and Arthor are all alive.**

**Sorry for the delay for this chapter. I'm going to use the lame old "life got in the way" excuse, even though I know that it's so boring. It's the truth, and I'm too tired to come up with a more entertaining one.**

**But.**

**There is some good news. I'm guessing most of you, if you are true Hunger Games fans, know what it is.**

**That's right.**

**The Hunger Games movie. Comes out.**

**Today.**

**March 23rd.**

**I can't exactly express my excitement in any words other than: alksdjfgoajsdl;j;agldhgolsdfja;sdlg! (with an infinite amount of exclamation points). Unfortunately, I am unable to attend this weekend. I have to wait because it's all sold out through Sunday. Life, you freaking suck.**

**However most of you, I'm sure, have already seen it or are planning to see it soon. Lucky bastards.**

**But I love you still!**

**If you have seen it, please let me know how good it was (without spoilers) in your review! **

**And may the odds be ever in your favor. :)**


	29. AG: The Room: Day Six

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **S**ix

* * *

><p>Nothing happens on the screen for the rest of the night. I go back to sleep and when I wake up Johanna is curled up on the floor next to me, staring at nothing. Mags has dozed off in her chair. It's already morning time; there's no telling how long she let me sleep in.<p>

Johanna looks up at me when I sit up on my elbows, rubbing sleep from my eyes and drool from my chin. Ew. I see the ghost of her signature sarcastic smirk tug at the corners of her mouth, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Morning, handsome," she says quietly.

"What time is it?"

"Six. Mags's only been asleep for a few minutes."

I sit up and stretch. Johanna gets off the ground and hands me a cup of cold coffee. I take it gratefully and down it in one gulp, making a face when I realize that it's black. Johanna doesn't even laugh at my goofy expression.

Solemnly I place the empty cup on the top of the desk. Johanna must have really been counting on Zona winning this year. I don't blame her; the girl was tough. Like her mentor.

I hold out my arms for an embrace. "I'm sorry, Jo."

Johanna gives me an incredulous look and shoves my hands away. "I don't need you to coddle me, Finnick. I'm not one of your pathetic Capitol whores looking for solace after a break up."

That's harsh, even for her. But she seems to find a little bit of comfort in verbal abuse, so she draws herself up to her full height (which isn't that impressive) and continues. "I don't need you to hold me and tell me that everything's okay. I don't need a pat on the head. I don't need you for anything. I'm Johanna Mason, damn it! I don't need anyone! Certainly not President Pimp's pet prostitute."

The cubicle is deathly silent except for the voices of Annie and Quincy traveling through the speakers as they continue their trek to the other side of the lake. Johanna's yelling woke up Mags; she stares at us anxiously, waiting to see what I will do. Honestly, I haven't wanted to hit anyone so much since I punched Nath. My fists are clenched, and so are Johanna's. I know that one wrong word from either of us could ignite a fight. So I measure my words carefully, choking a lot back. Because it's Johanna and I know that she pushes people away when she gets hurt. Because it's Johanna, and all she really wants right now is a friend. Only because it's Johanna.

"Are you done?" I say.

"No," she huffs. "No, no I'm not." Her face gets all pinched and red as she tries to hold back the tears pooling in her eyes. Then, finally, she gives an explosive sob and tackles me, squeezing the breath out of me with her strong grip. On the screen, Annie and Quincy make it to the lake. They gaze at it in wonder for a long while, then Annie, too, bursts into tears.

Johanna lets go of me and roughly wipes her face with the back of her wrist, looking agitated. She looks at the screen, then back at me, and hits me hard in the gut. "Send something to get that girl to stop blubbering like a baby," she snaps, scowling. With that she turns and walks out of the room in a dignified manner, as though nothing at all had transpired. I know that I will not see her again until the next Hunger Games.

We have enough funds to send the Crestas a loaf of crispy seaweed-green bread from District Four and fish. The looks on their faces when they see the silver parachutes is priceless. They decide to relax a little and have a feast, eating all of the fish and most of the bread. Then they strip down to their underwear and swim in the lake, splashing and playing and having a good time. It brings a smile to my face to see them enjoying themselves in the arena, and apparently Panem likes the light mood too, because the numbers start moving up even more.

They wash their clothes and bodies and Annie falls asleep under the shade of a tree, snoozing away the effects of the berries she had to consume in order to stay up and watch over Quincy. During this time Quincy inspects his hand, his face pale under his tanned skin. It's causing him obvious pain, but he's doing his best not to show it in front of Annie.

A cannon booms. Mags looks over at the screen, and by the look on her face I know it's Evee. I wonder how she died. I hope that it was something quick. I really, really hope so.

Annie wakes up soon after that. Quincy tells her of the cannon and they agree to continue on until nightfall. They don't stop until it's too black to see anything. They enter a small clearing and Quincy stops, resting against the trunk of a huge tree. "_I can barely see anything. We'll rest here and continue tomorrow_."

"_Okay_," Annie says, depositing her stuff on the ground and assessing the big tree. "_I just want to see where we are_."

"_Annie, don't_ - "

But Annie's agility has grown a lot over the past few days, and she's halfway up the tree before Quincy can even finish his sentence. He shakes his head and puts down his stuff, sitting down against the trunk of the tree. Annie makes it almost to the top and sits down on a branch, swinging her legs over the side. They both jump violently when the Capitol anthem starts and the faces for that day pop into the sky, but for different reasons. Annie jumps because she was startled by the music. Quincy jumps because he sees a figure emerging from the trees.

He grabs his knife as Arthor steps into the faint light of the stars. "_Hello, Quincy_," Arthor sneers, his own small sword flashing threateningly. "_Long time no see. Where's Annie? Did she ditch you once she realized that you weren't going to be waking up for a while?_"

Quincy glowers at him with pure hatred. "_You're going to pay for that. Annie could be dead for all I know, and it's because of you. I swear if I see her face up in the sky tonight, I'm going to gut you like a fish_."

Feigning ignorance is a smart move on Quincy's part. It will serve the dual purpose of keeping Annie safe and, if she does appear, having the element of surprise. Arthor seems to believe him, too, because he says, "_I thought I heard a girl screaming earlier, but if she's dead then I didn't kill her_." Arthor smiles cruelly. I can see Annie climbing down the tree, swinging from branch to branch in a frantic hurry. Can she hear them talking? "_If you ask me, she deserves it. Think about it, Quincy: she ditched both of us in the cave to save her own skin. She put up a good front, blabbing on and on about saving you, but in the end she was just as selfish as the rest of us_."

"_Shut up_!" Quincy growls, launching himself at Arthor.

The ground shakes and Quincy drops to his knees, scurrying up just as Arthor is drawing his sword. They glare at each other with cold hatred and begin staggering around each other, sizing the other up.

Annie looses her grip on the tree and for a horrible second I think she's going to fall twenty feet, but she latches onto another branch about halfway down. I know she can see her brother and their nemesis. She looks worried and helpless.

On the other screen, Arthor lunges at Quincy and they begin slashing at each other with a ferocity that is personal and intimate. These Games have gotten to their heads.

Annie screams, but she is barely heard over the rumbling of the earthquake and the snapping of the wood from her tree. It's falling over, collapsing with her in it. She can do nothing but hold on for dear life. The camera goes fuzzy as the tree knocks it loose from whatever location it was in. I can't see her anymore.

Quincy and Arthor exchange numerous blows. Quincy seems to be gaining the upper hand, pushing Arthor back toward the tree line. It's hard to tell with gracelessness of their dance. The earthquake keeps everything shrouded in mystery. Suspenseful. Just what the Capitol wants.

Annie's cannon hasn't gone off yet. She must still be alive, right? Right?

Quincy and Arthor continue to duel. Suddenly the earthquake comes to a stop and Arthor's sword swings up. I know what's going to happen before it does, but I can't do anything to stop it. Arthor was backing up on purpose so he was on an incline. So he was above Quincy.

So he could sever Quincy's neck with ease.

Mags covers her mouth in horror as Arthor's blade slices through Quincy's neck and his head falls to the ground, his body collapsing soon after. The head rolls down the incline like a beach ball.

There is a person standing at the bottom who I didn't notice there before. Someone who successfully clawed her way out of the tree branches. The head rolls and rolls until it comes to a stop right at her feet. She looks down on it for a second, still as a statue. Quincy's cannon goes off. I don't have to look at the screen.

When Annie looks back up at Arthor, she doesn't look like Annie anymore.

Her face is twisted with the wrath and hatred of a thousand burning Hells, her eyes two pools of green infernos. Her cry echoes in the night, a sound that makes me want to cover my ears with my hands and shut my eyes. It is somewhere between sorrow and rage.

Then with an speed I didn't know she possessed, Annie sprints across the clearing and tackles Arthor. They fall to the ground, kicking and biting and scratching. As I watch, grotesquely transfixed, I realize that it is the fight of someone who has nothing to lose.

Annie wretches the sword out of Arthor's hands and she stabs in the chest, in the neck, in the face; anywhere she can cut him she does, screaming all the while. She stabs and stabs until tears run down her cheeks and her arms give out from exhaustion, even after he is surely dead.

Slowly she calms down and she lets go of the hilt, looking slightly confused. She stares at her hands and all around her where Arthor's blood is pooled. Then she holds the hands up to her face, glances down again and Arthor's mutilated remains, and screams with so much fear and horror that it sends chills down my spine. Annie scrambles away from the body and starts to run away in a state of hysteria.

She runs for nearly an hour, runs at full speed without tiring, paying no heed to where she's going. When the cameras close-up on her terrified face, Mags lets out a little noise and places her head on my shoulder. I hold her while we watch Annie run. There is nothing we can do for her now.

We finally think she's calmed down when she trips on a tree root and stays there on the ground, looking up at the sky. She is far from okay, but at least now we might be able to send her something, anything, that might help her survive for just a little longer.

A storm rolls in. It begins to rain, but Annie doesn't seem to mind. In fact, a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as the raindrops fall on her skin and wash away Arthor's blood.

Then the thunder cracks.

Annie screams and rolls over on her side, covering her ears. She gets up and starts running again. Eventually she comes across a cave, one near the gushing dams from the lake. She runs into the cave and curls up inside, hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing.

She doesn't move from that spot for the rest of the night.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Evee, Quincy, and Arthor.<strong>

**Recap: Opal and Annie are still alive.**

**So, a very dramatic chapter. I did my best to write about Annie's hysteria from Finnick's POV, but I personally think that I did a lot better writing it from Annie's in Sea Glass. There's a lot running through her head that you miss from Finnick's perspective.**

**And I know that Johanna's meltdown will probably upset some people, but I thought it was necessary. She is the newest mentor, and it makes sense that she'd be a little upset over her tributes' deaths. Knowing Johanna, her sorrow would probably expressed in that way.**

**President Pimp's pet prostitute. Try saying that five times fast.**

**As always, let me know your thoughts.**


	30. AG: The Room: Day Seven

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **R**oom - **D**ay **S**even

* * *

><p>The Room is absolutely silent. Everyone has gone home. Everyone is gone, except me and Mags and Cashmere and Gloss. Their male tribute, Opal, is the only one left.<p>

Opal is still out there. Looking for Annie.

I cannot see him.

But I can see her.

I wish that I couldn't. There's not much to look at. Not anymore. Annie hasn't moved from her curled-up position in the cave. Even when the first soft light of dawn breaks over the horizon and leeches into her cave, she does not move. She is absolutely still.

Sometime in the early morning I fall asleep in my chair, watching her do nothing. When I wake up, Mags has dozed off too. Annie is still curled up in a ball on the screen. I'm worried about her. She hasn't eaten or drunk any water or slept, really. She just sits there and stares at the cave floor. If she goes on like this, she won't have to worry about Opal finding her. She will slowly, painfully kill herself.

Suddenly, a horrible thought shoots through my mind. What if Annie does commit suicide? What happens then?

The answer is so simple, it hurts. Opal will win. He will go home. I will go home. Mags will go home. We'll all go home and we'll do it again next year.

And next year, there will be another Annie.

* * *

><p>I hear it around midday, when I'm eating a turkey sandwich that an Avox just delivered to me. A deep rumbling noise coming from the screen. An earthquake.<p>

I look at the map and, of course, the area around the little dot that is Annie is all lit up in red. I throw my lunch down on a plate and rush over to the screen. What does Annie need? What can I give to her?

Nothing comes to mind.

The earthquake rattles her cave. The roof splits open a hair, but not enough to collapse. The ground crumbles slightly. Annie doesn't gather her things and run out of it like a sensible person would; like she did before, the night that Quincy was drugged. Instead she covers her ears and she screams, loud and clear, over the ground's thunder. The sound tears me open. I feel like all of my organs have spilled onto the shiny tile floor of the Room. Because I have enough money to pay for anything that Annie needs, but the one thing she needs I can't supply to her.

She needs to get out of the arena.

Annie just needs to be safe.

But as long as she lives, Annie will never be safe again. Not in the arena. Not in District Four. Not in the Capitol. Not with me.

She will never be safe with me. Not ever.

Maybe the best thing for her is to never be in danger again.

_No!_ I think to myself, furiously. No. Annie is not going to die. She's not. I have to keep her alive and bring her back home. To honor Quincy's memory. Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

Eventually the earthquake stops and Annie lays there on the floor of the cave, trembling and sobbing like a lost child. In reality, isn't that what she is? No one can deny that she is lost, and at sixteen doesn't she still qualify as a child?

I remember three years ago, when I was sixteen. Was I a child then? I wouldn't consider myself one. By sixteen I had killed five and had sex with seven different people, none of whom I knew the names of. I was a murderer and a prostitute at sixteen.

So, no. I would not say that I was a child at sixteen.

But is Annie?

Yes. Yes, I think she is.

She deserves to be, anyway.

We sit there and we watch her cry on the screen, knowing there is nothing we can do to help her, agonizing over it, letting that fact poke us in the side like a hot iron rod. It's a painful truth to consider.

The sun sets, and Annie's sobs quiet. Somehow I can tell she's asleep.

I wonder if Opal is sleeping too, or if he is still hunting for her. Perhaps the point of the earthquake was to flush Annie out of her hiding spot and send her into Opal. If that is the case, then he must be close. But Annie is not moving. If the Gamemakers want a fight, Opal is going to have to come to her.

A fight.

Between Annie and Opal.

"Mags," I whisper. I have to whisper if I want anything confidential between the two of us. Our voices carry through the silent Room. "Do you think she's going to make it?"

Mags does not give me an answer. I honestly don't think she has one.

I don't either.

* * *

><p><strong>Opal and Annie are the only ones left still.<strong>

**Sorry about the short filler chapter. The next one is the final chapter for Annie being in the arena, and then we move on. For those of you who have read Sea Glass and are wondering, no, I won't go as far with Annie's story as I did in that one. What I'll probably do is write until she moves into her house in Victor's Village and stop there. Then I'll go on another short hiatus and do Part Three: The Quarter Quell.**


	31. AG: The Room: Winner

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he** R**oom - **W**inner

* * *

><p>Mags and I grimly watch Annie beat her fists bloody on the cave walls, screaming her head off. Again.<p>

"_DEAD! QUINCY IS DEAD! IT'S YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT_!" She grips her hair and falls to her knees, curling up and clutching her head. "_ANSWER ME, DAMN IT! IT'S YOUR FAULT_!"

Mags winces as Annie lets out another long wail, the sound of anguish. This isn't the first time today she's done this. It's been going on all morning. Her voice is going hoarse. That only makes it worse.

When she's done screaming, she curls up on the ground again, subdued.

Mags and I sit in our little cubicle and watch. Because there is nothing else we can do. What can we do? What?

Suddenly, Mags looks up at me as though she can read my mind. Which I'm sure she probably can. I'm sure my thoughts are written all over my face. I don't have the will to hide them anymore. I don't have the strength. Annie is suffering, suffering so much more than she should.

"I had a dog once," Mags says to me. Already I know where this story is going and I don't want to hear it, but I know I have to. "It was old but I took it in. I fed it and pampered it. But it was sick, Finnick. It was so, so sick."

This is the most I've heard Mags talk in a while.

"So sick," she whispers.

I don't want to hear it.

"And miserable."

"Stop," I say.

"In pain, Finnick. It was in unbelievable pain."

"Please..."

"I had to end its misery. I had to - "

"Just shut up, Mags!" I'm out of my seat and towering over her tiny, frail form. She's so old, Mags. She so shriveled. My fists are clenched, shaking. I want to punch something. But not Mags. Never Mags.

She knows I won't do it. She sits patiently, trustingly, in the seat. She stares at me with her lily-pad green eyes until I shrink and shrivel back into my own seat. I place my head in my hands and pull at my hair. I feel the gentle pressure of her hand on my shoulder.

"It's time to end it," she sighs. I can hear the tears in her voice. Mags doesn't want to do it any more than I do.

Annie moans on the screen, her voice audible even over the sound of the storm raging outside her cave and muffling the speakers.

It's something that must be done.

Annie is in too much pain.

Mags seems to guide me from the chair and down the corridor of the Room, all the way to the front where the cubicle labeled _District One_ lies in wait. I feel hollow, empty, like a breeze might knock me over.

I might just be the first mentor in Hunger Games history who murders their own tribute.

Mags gives my arm a squeeze. I know I must be the one to do this. Cashmere and Gloss don't understand anything that comes out of Mags's mouth.

Slowly, with a sickening feeling in my stomach, I raise my fist to knock on the cubicle.

This is all too familiar.

I don't register that I've knocked until Cashmere saunters over, tossing her long blonde hair. Too, too familiar. I can't see where Opal is on the screen, or what state he's in. They've muted the speakers and Cashmere blocks my view with her body.

"What?" she says, not unkindly, but not in a friendly way either.

"We're done," I find myself saying. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's flat, a buzzing drone in my ears. "We'll tell you where Annie is. Just make it end."

Cashmere blinks rapidly. We've obviously taken her by surprise. "What?" she says again, differently, puzzled, shocked. How can the same word sound so different?

"I'll tell you where my tribute is," I say again. "We can't do this anymore. She can't do this anymore."

"How do I know this isn't a trap?" Cashmere asks, narrowing her eyes.

I jerk my head toward my cubicle. "Come on. I'll show you where she's at."

Cashmere follows me and Mags back to our cubicle. Her eyes widen when she see's Annie's condition, and a breathy "wow" escapes her lips. I shoot her a glare so venomous that it makes her face drain of color. For some reason I feel harshly protective of this pitiful girl on my screen.

I point to the dot on the map. "She's there. In a cave under the dams."

"Right," Cashmere nods. "I'll go send Opal a parachute."

Before she leaves, I grab her wrist, a new worry surfacing inside of me. Cashmere turns and raises her eyebrows expectantly. I swallow and recover, boring my green eyes into her ice blue ones. "Opal. Don't let him hurt her; tell him to just do it quickly. I think the Capitol has had enough Games for one year."

Cashmere stares at me for a moment, then nods again. Almost like she's doing me a favor. She wrestles her wrist out of my grasp and disappears around the corner.

Mags collapses in the seat and sniffs silently, her shoulders shaking. I fall into mine and blankly watch Annie on the screen. I feel like someone's just punched me in the gut.

There's nothing to do now but wait.

* * *

><p>Opal finds Annie a few hours later. Three sequential earthquakes have jostled her into various states of hysteria. He probably had to fight through all the rubble to get there.<p>

He's alert when he first enters the cave, and part of me hopes that Annie will actually jump up and try to escape or attack. But she doesn't. She sits there and she waits for him to come to her.

Opal sits down.

"_I finally found you_," he says. "_You're pitiful. I'll kill you quickly. I want to get out of here anyway_."

At least Cashmere kept her promise.

Opal puts the knife to Annie's throat.

I can't watch.

I can't.

But I have to.

"_Say goodnight_," Opal whispers, almost lovingly.

The cave groans.

And the screen goes fuzzy.

Mags and I are both out of our seats, staring with wide eyes at the screen, at each other. "What the hell just happened?" we hear Gloss cry across the room. Mags and I are thinking the same thing. What _did_ just happen?

The screen comes back to life, and it's an aerial camera. It shows a vast majority of the arena. The arena that no longer looks the same. The arena that is underwater.

The Gamemakers went overboard with the rain. The dams couldn't take it. They broke.

Annie's cave was near the dams.

I've registered this and only this when I hear the cannon shot. I almost break my neck looking at the dead-tributes screen.

Opal's blue eyes bore into mine.

"Finnick!"

I wheel back around and see Mags frantically pointing one wrinkled finger at the screen. I squint at the gushing greenish water and see what she's so excited about.

Annie's head is bobbing above the swirling current. She's just barely treading water, gasping for air. The anthem rings, and Annie is immobilized and brought aboard a hovercraft. The screen goes black. All of them do.

Mags is hugging me, tears gushing from her eyes. Cashmere and Gloss are both yelling savagely at me, accusing me of cheating, of planning for the dams to brake. Peacekeepers are taking them away. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters.

Annie is alive. Annie won.

And that's all that matters right now.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Opal.<strong>

**And Annie wins!**

**Stay tuned, there will be a few more chapters to sum up Part Two! Then, as I said, I'll take a brief hiatus like last time to get Part Three: The Quarter Quell all figured out. Until then, let me know your thoughts.**


	32. AG: The Capitol: Interviews Part Two

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **I**nterviews **(**Part Two**)**

* * *

><p>Annie has to stay at the Capitol for a whole two months. She needs what they call "corrective therapy." Otherwise known as a shrink. I think Annie is the only victor in Hunger Games history to go through this treatment. She must be more unstable than we thought.<p>

Because of her absence, the second interviews were delayed. The Capitol is in a frenzy. Never mind the fact that Annie is suffering emotional turmoil that's completely unhinged her; their favorite television program isn't running on time. That's a serious issue.

Unfortunately, not even the President will put Annie up there the way she is now. I'm sure it has less to do with his concern for her well-being than for her unpredictable actions on stage. Without therapy, will she even be able to speak about the Games? If she does, what will she say? Something not-so-nice, that's for sure. I recall her frantic episodes in the cave: _It's your fault, damn it! Your fault! _She wasn't talking about Arthor.

The President's got me working from noon until midnight. It seems like I'm always spending time in a bed, either rolling around with some Capitol woman or sleeping in my own. One benefit of the job, however, is that I get information that the President won't divulge to me; information like the hospital where this year's tribute is getting treatment for her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's what they're calling it, anyway.

I take Mags with me the first time, because I'm sure she wants to see Annie as much as I do. But when we ask for Annie, the nurse denies even having a patient under that name. But I know people. And I know she's lying.

I give her the crooked smile that women seem to find so irresistible and gently trail my fingertips across the knuckles of her hand laying on the desk. "Are you sure? Because I could have sworn President Snow said this hospital..."

The nurse squirms and looks this way and that. "Okay, she's here but...she's really unstable. Seriously loony. And she's not allowed any visitors."

This woman's skin is electric blue, and Annie is the seriously loony one. I push that thought down and tilt my head to the side, looking at her from under the fringe of my eyelashes. I slip my fingers under her hand and trace my thumb along her palm. "Can't you make an exception, just this once? Only for a few minutes. It'll be a quickie."

"How about," the nurse murmurs, leaning over the counter and exposing an impressive amount of blue cleavage, "you visit me for a few minutes instead. It'll be a quickie."

The desire to see Annie fills my mind, and I'm seriously considering the offer when Mags takes my other hand and tugs me away. "Thanks," she tells the nurse, and she pulls me across the lobby and out the door. My face is heated with shame. I hang my head, sorry that Mags had to see me like that.

The next time I visit the hospital is a few days later. I go without Mags. But the President obviously heard of the earlier encounter with the electric blue nurse. He must really not want me to see Annie, because all of the receptionists at the counter are male.

As if he's never had me seduce a man before.

However, I have a feeling he's been quite cautious, and that none of these men are gay. Even though I know its a failure from the start, I go up to the counter and ask to see Annie Cresta.

"She's not allowed visitors," says a nurse with a deep, rumbling voice and spiky brown hair. Well, at least he didn't try to claim that she's not even present.

"Why not?"

"Doctor's orders. Unless you have more business here, I suggest you leave."

"I'm staying until I get to see her," I tell the nurse, crossing my arms defiantly.

"You're going to be waiting a while," he retorts. "But please, have a seat in the waiting area. I'll immediately inform you when Miss Cresta is stable enough for visitors."

I sit and doze off in the waiting room until someone shakes me awake. It's Mags again, here to take me back to the penthouse where we are living for the duration of Annie's therapy.

The third and final time I visit the hospital I am escorted out by security after I try and sneak a peek at the patient records to see if I could find Annie's room number.

After that, there isn't a moment's rest for me. The President is determined to keep me so busy that I can't even think about going back to the hospital. Not all of my appointments are sexual encounters; some of them are just women who want to talk, eat dinner, or genuinely enjoy my company. Nonetheless, they suffice in contributing to the "Occupy Finnick Odair" campaign.

Finally, two long months after Annie's victory, Mags announces that the interviews are bright and early the next morning. It is 3:51am when she shares this information with me. I flop into bed with a smile on my face.

* * *

><p>Mags left a note on the counter.<p>

_Gone to the interviews. Thought you needed sleep. Be there by 11._

_- M_

I can barely read her handwriting, but after several minutes of squinting and guessing I determine that this is what it says. Then I look up at the clock. It's 10:45am.

I've never moved so fast in my life. By 10:52am I'm dashing out of the penthouse, and twelve minutes later I'm tumbling out of a limousine. At 11:06am I'm dodging my way through the crowd, looking for Mags or Annie or Ophelia or _somebody_.

I stop to catch my breath. The interviews haven't started yet, but I wanted to see her real face before I saw it on the screen. I've been looking at her face through a screen for too long.

"Finnick!"

I look up to see all 5'4 of Annie Cresta sprinting toward me at full throttle. For a second I don't recognize her; she looks like a sea goddess dressed in an ocean-colored silk blouse and a lacy white skirt, copper bracelets adorning her arms and her hair done up in a braid. She tackles me, nearly knocks me over, but she's laughing and I'm laughing and spinning her around and pressing my face into her hair, her neck, any part of her I can. It's probably the least romantic thing I've ever done in my life, but it feels right and I feel like the happiest man alive.

When I pull away, I see a few tears pooling in her eyes. I think of all the days she's spent crying, in the arena, probably outside of it too. I don't want her to have to shed any more tears. "Don't cry, Annie. Please don't cry."

Ophelia ruins it all by tapping Annie on the shoulder. "Sorry to interrupt, but you need to be on stage in two minutes! Let's go!" Annie reluctantly lets go of me and turns away to endure her interviews.

Mags shuffles over, beaming. I take her tiny, wrinkled hand and help her find our seats up in the balcony. We will see everything on big screens. Annie and Caesar are wiggling forms on stage.

The President comes on first. He makes a small speech and places the victor's crown on Annie's head. It sickens me to watch his fingers brush against her shiny brown hair, to touch any part of her at all. My hands are balled into fists. Annie's are too, but they don't show that on the screen.

Caesar doesn't as Annie any questions. They play the recap of the Games beforehand, up on the big screen for everyone to see. Annie just squirms in her throne. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have any reaction other than discomfort. Until they play Quincy's death.

One look at her face on the screen and I'm out of my seat, shoving people's legs and bodies out of my way. Why wasn't I down there before? I knew they were going to play it. I should have been down there. I just...didn't think. I wasn't thinking.

Annie is running off the stage when I finally make it to the right-hand side. Thankfully she's running my way; she runs right into my arms.

And starts screaming.

"LET ME GO!" she shrieks, her face pinched and red and shut against whatever horrors she sees. "LET ME GO! HE'S GOING TO KILL ME! QUINCY, HELP! HELP! LET ME GO!"

"Annie! Annie, it's me!" I grab her flailing arms and force her to look at me, only me. She falls limp and starts sobbing, burying her face into my chest, hugging my waist like a little kid.

The coordinators of the interviews are rushing toward us, men with head-sets and clipboards and dressed completely in black. Caesar remains on stage, looking slightly bewildered, trying to tame the crowd.

"What is she doing?" one of them exclaims. "Get her back out there!" He even has the gall to put his hand on her shoulder. I knock it away, disgusted.

"Can't you see she's upset? She's had enough!"

"We can't just cancel the interview!" Yes, because the show must go on. No matter what.

"I'm afraid it seems that is what we must do."

My back stiffens as President Snow steps out of the shadows. His gaze runs over Annie and me quickly before turning back to the directors. Annie hugs me tighter and mutters something that sounds like "his fault."

"Hush, Annie," I whisper just loud enough for her to hear. Talk like that will get her in serious trouble, even if she is distraught.

The President continues. "Miss Cresta is obviously in no condition to carry out the rest of the interview. Don't you agree, Dr. Greenswilsh?"

A bespectacled man in a tweed suit and untidy salt-and-pepper hair standing beside the President murmurs in agreement. "I'm afraid so. It's quite astonishing. She was making fantastic progress."

_Relapses tend to happen when you show their brother's death on national television_, I almost snap, but I manage to bite my tongue just in time. I shouldn't test my boundaries.

"Well, her brother's death must have been traumatising," Snow says, reading my mind. But there is something almost patronizing in his tone that doesn't sit well with me. "What do you propose is best for her?"

"I don't think she should continue the interview," Dr. Greenswilsh remarks, though this is obvious to everyone in the room (except, evidently, the men dressed in black).

"Yes, but do you still think she should go back to her district? Or should she stay here longer?"

_You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ I think, glaring at the President over Annie's head. _Finally, an excuse to put me to good use all the time_. The idea of staying in the Capitol another week, another _day_, makes me want to tear my hair out.

"Perhaps she should stay here for a few more months..."

Annie surprises me by wheeling around, looking panicked. "No! I want to go home!"

"With all do respect, Annie," the doctor says, looking genuinely sorry, "I don't think you're in any condition to decide where and where you do not go."

Annie looks like she's getting ready to burst into tears. She has no voice here, not in the state she's in. Maybe I can salvage the situation. "Doctor," I begin, "don't you think that going back to District Four will be therapeutic for her? A familiar place where she can get her life back together and she'll have family and friends to support her? Where she can forget about the traumatic events of the Hunger Games?"

"The boy makes a valid point," the President relents. His eyes flash in a way that makes my skin crawl when he calls me "boy." President Snow has thought of a much more _practical _idea than keeping me here in the Capitol. The question is, what? "But," he adds, "what about the Victory Tour?"

He's testing me to see how far I'll go. I stare him down. He knows by now that I'll go all the way for the ones I love. "If she's too unwell to participate, then I'll go in her place."

"Yes, that would be acceptable. Very well. Doctor, why don't you have one last session with Miss Cresta, then she and Mr. Odair will leave for District Four tomorrow morning," the President decrees. Without waiting for approval, he strides away and on stage to brake it to Panem. We watch him go in triumphant, yet somehow grim, silence.

"Yes, President," Dr. Greenswilsh says, exhausted after Snow is gone. He turns to us. "Annie, would you like to come to my office? You can stay in the same room and then be on your way tomorrow. You may come to the hospital too, if you wish, Mr. Odair, though I'm afraid you can't sit in on our session."

"Sure, and feel free to call me Finnick," I tell him. I take Annie's hand and follow the doctor out of the mess of irritated directors muttering into their head-sets.

Behind us, the crowd groans in disappointment.

* * *

><p><strong>Reunion...! It's such a beautiful thing. :)<strong>

**And in response to a comment I got in a review but was unable to reply to via PM, it never said anything in the book as far as I know about Finnick knowing Annie since he was sixteen. It is a fact that he won the 65th Hunger Games at the age of fourteen, and mentored Annie at nineteen when she competed in the 70th Hunger Games at an age between fifteen and eighteen. I just figured that it was more likely that he met and fell in love with Annie _after_ she was chosen to be a tribute, rather than him being in love with her before and having her chosen out of all the people in District Four.**

**Anyway, tell me me your thoughts as always.**


	33. AG: The Capitol: Secrets

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **S**ecrets

* * *

><p>Before we leave for the hospital, Dr. Greenswilsh says that his schedule for today is full, but he can see Annie at their usual time tomorrow. The scatterbrained therapist seems like a decent guy; at least he doesn't treat Annie in that careful way that Maya and Ophelia did. At least he doesn't treat her like she's crazy.<p>

Annie seems to have a slight distaste for him, but not in any significant sense. Perhaps she just doesn't like someone trying to nose around in her mind. But Dr. Greenswilsh seems to genuinely want to help her, so when he gives her his phone number and she tries to throw it away after he leaves, I take it from her and stick it in my pocket.

"You never know," I say.

Annie doesn't reply.

"Finnick," I hear someone say from behind me. I turn and see, much to my dismay, the President. He looks politely smug. "Come, talk with me."

He takes me away from Annie, who stands alone, watching us, wringing her hands and fumbling with her braid.

"Your first tribute to win," Snow begins. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," I say stiffly.

"She's very pretty, isn't she? It's too bad about her...condition." He smirks. "But all wounds heal with time, don't you think, Finnick? Perhaps one day she will be well enough to visit the Capitol. Like you do."

The thought of Annie enduring the things that I do makes me sick to my stomach. Annie isn't like Johanna. She wouldn't allow her loved ones to suffer. She would do what I do. She would come without complaint, without hesitation, so her parents and the rest of District Four would be safe.

"What do you want?" I hear myself saying.

"Motivation is a very powerful thing. The more, the merrier, I think." President Snow leans in. "Gossip is also a very powerful thing, Finnick. If you think we here at the Capitol are blind, you are mistaken. We all saw your little reunion. Luckily for you, she's your first victor; it's okay for you to be a bit...overwhelmed by emotion. But that can't go on for long. You have duties, responsibilities, to uphold here. And if you become distracted by that girl, I'm afraid I'll have to take matters into my own hands."

Matters were always handled too well in the President's hands.

"I won't become distracted," I say numbly.

"I like you, Finnick. I'm willing to cut you some slack," the President says. "I really don't care what you do in District Four. You've been good; you _deserve_ a reward, in fact. I'm not heartless, you know. So I don't care what you do in District Four, as long as none of it reaches the ears of the Capitol." Snow leans in, his eyes glinting. "But if there is even a hint of rumor anywhere, I will know. And she will be the one to suffer the consequences."

"I know." It's always someone else who suffers the consequences.

"She's already a disappointment," President Snow says, peering at Annie over my shoulder. I follow his gaze; she's spaced out. She has no idea we're staring directly at her. "Running away like that in the middle of the interview; do you think I would let anyone else get away with that? Why should she get special treatment?"

"She didn't know what she was doing!" I hiss.

"Calm down," Snow remarks dryly. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Don't get distracted, Finnick. I've given you a carrot; don't make me whip out the stick." Snow turns on his heels and begins to walk away. Then he stops and looks at me again, looks at Annie too. "Why would you want damaged goods anyway? You could have any woman you wanted. You didn't seem like the type to take advantage of a disabled woman." The President shrugs nonchalantly. "I suppose I was wrong."

_Maybe it's because she's damaged that I want her more_, I think._ Annie is not the only one you've broken to pieces, Snow_.

I have to say Annie's name a couple times before she hears me. When she does, her face turns pink with embarrassment. "Sorry," she mutters.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about." She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, an unspoken question on her lips. She won't ask me, but I know she's curious about my conversation with the President.

"I have to tell you something, Annie," I say, barely just a whisper. Suddenly someone is squeezing my throat, making it hard to breathe. Telling her here, in front of all these people, is wrong. "I can't tell you here. I'll tell you in the car, okay?"

"Yes..." she says. I can tell her mind has already drifted off, wondering what kinds of things I'd be talking about with the President. We walk to the car. Get in. Buckle our seat belts. Let the driver drive us to the hospital.

And I still don't say anything. There is something heavy on my tongue, weighing it down. Annie doesn't press me. She looks out the window silently, curled into herself, her white skirt splayed across the seat like sea foam. _I'll tell her when we get there_, I think to myself.

Before I know it we've reached the hospital. Annie gets out, and I get out after her. And like that the words need to be released. My tongue is pushing them past my lips, dying to get them out of my mouth.

"We can't be so affectionate anymore, Annie." I stop, then add, "at least, not in public."

The words hang in the air, heavy. Annie's eyebrows shoot up. She looks like she's been blindsided. Obviously this wasn't what she was expecting, which makes me wonder what scenarios her mind came up with.

Her reaction is even more unpredictable. Suddenly she looks like she's been punched in the gut. She doubles over, trying to catch her breath. I'm alarmed to say the least. "Annie? What's wrong?"

"Is it because I'm mad?" she says shrilly, clutching her head. I'm confused, but she continues and I understand. "This has nothing to do with the President, does it? You just don't want to be seen with me because I'm crazy!"

"What? Annie, that's - "

"But you don't want to leave, because then you'll feel guilty that you left a crazy person on her own. Two weeks ago I might have let you, but I don't think I can - I can't - "

She's on the verge of hysteria now. "Stop, Annie - "

"I don't think I can face them alone!" Annie wails, viciously wiping tears from her face with the back of her wrist. "Please, please don't make me go to them without Quincy. I made them all a promise that I would bring him back, and I failed! I need you with me so that I can tell them the truth. So I can tell them that, deep down inside, I wanted to win. There were times when I wanted to win!"

Annie has been reduced to tears because she broke a single promise that she had no control over. Because a few times she adhered to her natural instinct to survive. She's broken down over things that I can only dream of being my only regrets.

Annie is a much better person than me.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her close to me. She crushes me with her arms, but her sobs are quieting. "I'm a horrible person," she whispers. "I didn't deserve to win."

I think about Ivory, and how little and strong her hands were around my arm as I slit her throat. About Julianne and Jayce, who knew nothing but killing and probably would have been so much different if they hadn't been programmed that way. About the boy from District Six, whose name I can't even remember from the blur that was my Victory Tour.

And suddenly I'm spewing all this out to Annie, but I'm not sure if I'm trying to relieve some of her guilt or some of mine. I'm not sure if I'm helping her or myself. "I'm the bad person, Annie, not you," I say, even though I know that's not true either. We all know who the bad person is.

"I killed someone too," Annie says, as if justifying her misery.

"And here you are, torn apart by that. You feel remorse."

"I laughed when I killed him." I think of Julianne, laughing as she raised the weapon above my head. The Angel of Death. I think of Annie covered in Arthor's blood, laughing hysterically as she stabbed his dead body over and over again.

There's a difference between Julianne and Annie.

These tears. This guilt. That's the difference.

But I don't say anything, because I know Annie won't care. She's not listening to me anymore. So I just hold her until she's calmed down entirely. Then I get back to the matter at hand. "I'm not guilty or ashamed of you; don't ever think that. I can't be with you like this in public because it's the President's orders."

"Huh? Why would the President care?"

So she still hasn't figured it out yet. I suppose that's a good thing. But it also means I'll have to explain, which is something I'm not particularly excited about.

"_That_ is a conversation for another time," I say. Because I don't think the parking lot of a hospital is the right place to drop that bomb. So I take her hand and lead her inside.

I'm not allowed in Annie's room. Hospital policy. Which is okay, because I don't want to test the President's limits too much by insisting. I'm already pushing it with the quick embrace and, when I think no one's looking (although someone always is) a kiss on her cheek.

"I'll be right out here," I say, gesturing to the lobby. It doesn't look too bad; besides, I slept here before. Annie looks away, at the chairs.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to..."

"I want to," I remark, smiling. I think of how much I've wanted to see her, to stay with her, since I've been here. "Goodnight, Annie."

"Night, Finnick." And reluctantly, she closes the door to her room. I hear the click of an automatic lock.

* * *

><p>I wake up from a doze as some nurses rush past me, their pagers bleeping quietly. I rub sleep out of my eyes and follow their path to the room with the flashing green light on the door.<p>

Annie's room.

Uh-oh.

I jump out of my seat as the nurses rush into her room. I hear a scream from inside and a startled cry, then the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Annie shouts something that sounds like "traitor!" and then she's yelling Quincy's name, over and over again.

I catch her as she's bursting out of the hospital room, screaming Quincy's name and thrashing around everywhere. "Annie! Annie, stop! It's me! Annie!" I shake her and finally she opens her eyes and sees me. Her eyes swell with tears and she collapses, sobbing.

A nurse hobbles over with a thin needle that she tries to inject Annie with. I push her hand away. This is faintly reminiscent of earlier, at the interviews. Idly I wonder if this happens often, and if this is what Dr. Greenswilsh calls progress. "She doesn't need that. She just had a nightmare."

"I-it wasn't a n-nightmare," Annie stutters. Her teeth are chattering. I remember my realistic nightmares that I got after my Hunger Games; that I still sometimes get. I pull her closer, rub her back to get her to calm down.

"Yes it was, Annie. None of that was real." I scoop her up, much to the astonishment of the nurses, and bring her back to bed. Then I sit beside her, take her hand, rub her knuckles with the pad of my thumb. "I'll stay here."

"Mr. Odair, you can't do that," says a nurse with black hair slicked into a bun. "She's deranged and it's against hospital policy - "

It disgusts me that these people are treating Annie like she's deaf and dumb, instead of with the respect she deserves. But there's one word makes red appear at the edges of my vision. "_Deranged?_ She is not deranged. Nor is she an animal, so put that needle away. She just had a nightmare, and if you'd seen the things she's seen you'd have nightmares too."

"But the policy - " the nurse tries again.

"Do I look like I give a damn about the policy?" I'm practically shouting now. The nurses walk out of the room, shaking their heads, and I know that if the President hears about this he will be furious. But I don't care right now. Not until I turn around and see that Annie has cringed at the sound of my yelling.

"It wasn't a nightmare," she squeaks. She's curled up in a gray blanket. Even in the dark I can tell that the rest of the room is a glaring, blank white.

I lay down beside her. "Yes it was, Annie. Whatever you saw, it's fake. There's nothing to be afraid of. It's over." This last part is complete bull, but whatever. Annie knows it already.

She's quiet for a moment. Then she wants to know if she can ask me a question. I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach, but I say yes anyway. How can I deny her anything?

"Why does the President care about us being together in public?"

My intuition was right. I sigh. "That's probably the worst question you could have asked."

"Please answer. I really want to know." This is the first time she's pressed me about anything, so I have a feeling that this is true. And I might as well tell her. She'll find out or figure it out eventually. There's no hiding it from her.

So why is it so hard to say?

Finally, I find my voice again. "Okay," I say. And then I begin. I tell her everything. Censored. I use words like _fraternize_, _vulnerable_, and _indecent_. I never come right out and say what I do, but Annie can infer it. I know she does, because I can feel the heat coming from her face. I wonder if she wished she hadn't asked. I wonder if I really should be telling her this.

When I'm done, it's really quiet. Too quiet. "Annie," I whisper, "none of those people mean anything to me, and none of them will. No matter how many times I go to the Capitol, I will come back and I will always be yours. Always." A shiver runs through me when I say this. It's the closest I've ever come to telling anyone that I love them. And the words are terrifyingly true on my tongue.

But I can see Annie's smile in the dark. "Always," she says. And then she gives me a kiss, and we lay in the dark in each others arms until sleep claims us.

* * *

><p><strong>It wasn't until rereading Sea Glass and translating it thorugh Finnick's POV did I realize how many times Annie runs out of a room and Finnick is there to catch her. This isn't the last time it's going to happen.<strong>

**So Finnick's secrets are out! I figured that the President is the kind of person who understands the power of motivation, so he would let Annie and Finnick be together as long as it didn't bother the Capitol and interfere with Finnick's "job." **

**Tell me what you think, as always! :)**


	34. AG: The Train: Voices

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **T**rain - **V**oices

* * *

><p>I know I'm in trouble when I'm in the hospital lobby waiting for Annie to finish her session with Dr. Greenswilsh and my personal limousine driver hands me a card. Then he walks away, silently. It occurs to me that he doesn't say much.<p>

The card is made of thick, expensive paper the color of cream. There is an elegantly thin border of black around it. In one corner, there is a scrawling sketch of a thorny rose in scarlet ink. The President's trademark symbol.

Written on the card in Snow's small, neat handwriting is one word: _Consequences_.

A warning. I'm testing my boundaries. Sleeping in Annie's room made a blip on the Capitol's radar; it is gossip-worthy material.

I sigh and tuck the card into my pocket.

Annie emerges from Dr. Greenswilsh's office and shuffles over to me in a sweeping gray skirt and black top that her stylist picked out for her. The last outfit her stylist will pick out for her, unless she decides that she wants to do the Victory Tour. Which I don't think she will.

"He said I'm okay to be released," she murmurs.

I clap my hands together. "Great. Let's get out of here then. Mags is waiting for us at the train station."

We can walk to the train station from here, but we take a car anyway. By the time we get there the crowds are waiting for us, waving and hollering. I don't know who told them that we were leaving for District Four today, and that fact bothers me. But I wave and wink and smile just like I would any other time in front of the cameras. As for Annie, she looks a little green.

I don't get to see Annie or Mags very much once we board the train. Ophelia occupies much of my time, organizing Annie's return into District Four. "I won't be there to make sure everything runs smoothly," she says stiffly, a little indignantly. "So that's going to be your job, Finnick. Listen up."

I never realized how much preparation went into a homecoming.

"That's all the basics," Ophelia says after about two hours of instruction. "But there is one more thing you need to handle. Something quite important, I'd say, in this case."

"What?"

Ophelia looks serious. "I just got a fax. When we get to District Four, Quincy's remains will be there. There will be a funeral. It will not be televised, but the victor and mentors are expected be present, as I'm sure you very well know. Not that I think attendance will be a problem, but..."

"You're saying I need to give her a heads up," I finish.

"Well, I'm just warning you. There's no telling how Annie might react when you do." Ophelia squirms, her magenta braids rippling over her shoulders. She is very uneasy talking about Annie's...what did the President call it? Ah, right; Annie's _condition_.

"I don't know, Ophelia," I snap. "How would you react if your brother was decapitated right in front of you?"

Her response is: "I don't have a brother."

That's when I leave.

We're all called down to dinner a little later. None of us are really talking; I think Ophelia is still stung from my abrupt exit earlier, and I'm still irritated with her. Annie and Mags...well, neither of them have really ever been talkers.

I clear my throat after an extensive pause and push my plate away. Mags and Annie look up at me curiously. Ophelia turns her head. "We just got a message from District Four. It seems Quincy's remains have just arrived. They're going to have the funeral when we get back. Traditional District Four style."

The table gets deadly quiet. Annie looks down at her plate. She opens her mouth to speak, looks like she might throw up, then tries again. "Can we have it on our boat?"

Her hands are shaking. "We'll have to ask your father, but I'm sure that's fine," I say to her gently. Now her whole body is shaking. Mags puts a hand on her shoulder.

Annie excuses herself and leaves the room. None of us go after her.

I look at Ophelia. "Unpredictable enough for you?"

"I'm sorry," Ophelia says, looking down at her plate. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to," I say, standing up. Somehow, I know she won't apologize to Annie. And that makes the apology more worthless than if she had never uttered it in the first place.

* * *

><p>Sleep doesn't come easily to me that night. It hardly ever does. As I stare up at the ceiling, I wonder if all victors have insomnia. I wonder...<p>

Just when I'm dozing off, I hear a shrill scream from somewhere in the car. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, chasing away any sleep that had settled. I'm racing through the car. I know where the screaming is coming from.

I can't get the door open when I get to her room. Is it locked? I can't tell. I let go of the knob and prepare to ram it open, but is swings in and Annie is standing there much in the same state as she was in the hospital. She runs right into my arms. Idly I wonder how often this is going to happen.

"Annie? What's wrong?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. I flick on the lights and check just to make sure. There's nothing amiss.

"Nightmares."

I close the door behind me before nosy people can come flooding in. In my mind, I hear rather than see the word printed on the card in the pocket of my pants laying beside my bed: _Consequences_. But one look at Annie and I know I can't leave her in this room by herself tonight. "I'll stay with you again."

"Finnick, it wasn't a nightmare."

I think again of how realistic my dreams can get. "Yes, it was. Whatever you saw - "

"It's not what I saw!" Annie explodes, tears spilling from her eyes and dripping from her chin. "It's what I heard! I think...I'm hearing voices."

I can only stare at her, stupefied. Voices? It seems too...cliche. It fits the definition of "crazy" too perfectly. The Hunger Games can make people crazy, but not this kind of crazy. Besides, aren't people who hear voices usually unaware of the fact?

Something's not right here.

"What kind of voices?"

"The kind that no one hears, or has ever heard. That's what spooked me at the hospital too. I didn't want to tell you because..." she trails off and laughs a little. "Well, I'm hearing voices. I'm really crazy now."

"Did they bother you when I was there?"

Annie shakes her head. "No."

"Come here then." I open my arms, and Annie runs into my embrace. This time, not in a state of hysteria. She snuggles close to me like a child, so soft, so warm. Her head fits under my chin perfectly. How did I not notice this before?

I brush a long lock of brown hair away from her ear. There are still some questions to be answered. "You said that the first time you heard the voices was last night?" _Consequences_.

"Yes..." she squirms. "Finnick, please stop. I don't want to talk about this."

_Consequences_. "Okay then," I say with a smirk. "We won't talk." I guide her backward until her knees are bumping up against the edge of the bed and she flops down on it, her feet brushing the floor. I tumble in after her, putting my hands on either side of her face, keeping an arms' length away.

"What are you doing?" Annie asks flatly, arching one delicate eyebrow. Her long brown waves are splayed all across the sheets in chaotic tangles. Her eyes are chaotic too, deep green with flecks of brown and copper and, just in the corner of her right eye, sapphire blue. These are imperfect eyes I could get lost in.

"Not talking," I reply, pressing my lips against the tender skin of her throat. She takes in a breath. I can feel her heartbeat, her pulse. I can hear mine thundering in my ears, partially out of exhilaration and partially out of fear.

"Taking advantage of a woman in her time of weakness," Annie remarks dryly. "I really thought better of you, Odair."

The President's words echo through my head. _You didn't seem like the type to take advantage of a disabled woman. I suppose I was wrong_. I hesitate. What if Annie doesn't want this after everything I told her? I try to make a joke out of it by making some sarcastic remark about my "romantic thunder," but I think Annie understands my confliction.

"What happened to not talking?"

Grinning, she pulls me down and kisses me, just kisses me, and for once I don't think about the consequences.

* * *

><p>Annie snores.<p>

Gently, softly, through her nose. She sleeps deeply, like someone who hasn't slept in days. Which she probably hasn't. Not with the nightmares she gets. Not with the voices she hears.

Voices. Ha.

I know Annie won't wake up as I carefully untangle myself from her long limbs. She's knocked out. A little bubble of content spreads in my chest as a watch her for a second. The fact that she sleeps so well in my arms makes me feel good. Needed.

There's something else that Annie needs from me, though, something much more important. I tiptoe over to her side and brush back the hair from her ear, peer inside her ear canal. Nothing. Other ear, nothing. No devices that might be triggering the voices.

No, that would be too obvious. Annie would notice that too soon. It must be something environmental. I begin methodically looking under the mattresses and pillows and sheets, anywhere I can think of. Under the bed. All in the carpet. In the drawers. Everywhere.

I find the first one under the dresser. It's small and black, with little holes on the surface like a microphone. There's no on/off switch; it might be wireless. A speaker. A bug.

Just what I thought. Annie's voices aren't real. It must be the President's idea of a sick joke. What, did he think that the voices would really make me believe that she's crazy? Or perhaps the objective was to actually drive Annie insane. Whatever the reason, it's twisted.

I'm sure this isn't the only one. Nothing this small could generate enough noise to incite that kind of reaction in Annie. Slowly I begin to look for more while Annie snores away.

* * *

><p><strong>So this chapter seems a little bit out there from Finnick's POV, but if you were to read <em>Sea Glass<em> and see it from Annie's perspective it would make a lot more sense.**

**Only a few chapters left for Part Two! **


	35. AG: District Four: The Funeral

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **F**uneral

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of the night hunting for bugs. I find about twelve. I'm digging around in the air vent, poised on a chair, when I hear Annie behind me.<p>

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her flat voice startles me so much that I bang my head on the top of the vent. I've been working in silence for so long. Rubbing the back of my head, I disengage myself from the vent and turn, almost sheepishly, to look at her.

She's propped up on her elbow in bed, looking sleepy and wonderful. Her hair drapes in wild curls down her shoulders. The flickering sunlight streaming in through the window bathes her in an angelic glow, the curves of her body a dark shadow in the sheets.

The morning looks good on Annie.

"I've got good news," I say in response to her question, hopping down from the chair. I hear the rustle of fabric as I replace the cover of the vent, and when I turn around she's sitting patiently on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to elaborate.

"The voices," I say, "they're not in your head." I poke her temple and feel the soft warmth of pillow-patterned skin under my finger.

She looks like I've just handed her a gift-wrapped puppy. "What?"

I explain the bugs to her the best I can, or at least what I understand about how they work. She asks few questions, and turns one over in her hands like it's a cancerous tumor that has just been cut out from her flesh.

Eventually, she asks the question I'm dreading: Why?

"Someone wants to convince me that you've gone completely mad," I say, carefully, urging her not to comment. Her brow furrows and I can see the gears turning in her head, struggling to make sense of my eerie explanation. Her eyes darken with resignation, and I see that she does understand. She understands all too well.

Then she smiles at me with relief and delight, and I smile back. It's a simple, silent message: there's no use worrying about something that we have no control over. I lean down to kiss her, but Ophelia knocks at the door. "We've just arrived at District Four! Come now, eat something before we arrive at the train station."

I sigh and make a face at the door. Annie giggles. "I suppose we better go eat breakfast."

"I need to get dressed," Annie remarks, hopping off the bed. I raise my eyebrows at her hopefully, but she gives me a look - her cheeks flushing in an adorable, innocent way - and pushes me out of the room. "Which means _you _need to exit the premises."

"You're no fun," I pout, making a face at her too. Although honestly, I probably wouldn't have stayed even if she'd allowed me to.

"Go." She points the way.

"I would let you stay in my room."

"I'm sure you would." Annie hands me my shirt, which was stripped off sometime during the night, and, with a sympathetic smile, kisses me on the cheek. I trap her face in my hands and kiss her more passionately, holding her to me just for a moment. Then I let her go and give her a crooked smile.

"The discretion starts now. See you at breakfast!"

I watch her shake her head, grinning, as she closes the door in my face.

* * *

><p>After breakfast, we step off the train. Lights. Cameras. No cheers. Just silent, solemn relief.<p>

The walk to Victor's Village is a long one. Annie shuffles her feet behind Mags and me, shrinking into herself like a child. I know what's going through her mind: what will she say to her family? To Quincy, as she scatters his ashes out to sea?

When we get to Victor's Village, I don't hear her footsteps behind me anymore. I turn around to see her running away, her gray skirt flying behind her like monochrome butterfly wings. "Annie!" I call, but she doesn't stop. She runs and runs until she's out of sight.

Mags sighs. "Let her be."

"But - "

"She'll come back."

I open my mouth again to object, then close it and nod. Mags knows best. She's brought home more victors than I have. Probably more than I ever will.

We continue our walk until we reach the neighborhood. None of the victors are here to greet Annie; they'll do that later, when she's settled. They know the drill.

Annie's parents are at the top of the hill, along with a pretty girl with sandy hair that I know is Tally Silvern. They all look astounded to see just Mags and me.

"Where is my daughter?" says Annie's father, a tall, muscular man that resembles both of his children. Annie's mother is the exact opposite of the rest of her dark, lean family; she is blonde, pale, and delicate. She puts one elegant hand on her husband's shoulder, but her brow is wrinkled with concern as well.

"She's very overwhelmed right now," I tell them. "We were walking over here and she ran away."

"Why didn't you run after her?" Mr. Cresta cries. He is an aggressive person, but he has a kind, sad face. I know that he is just worried about his daughter. And why shouldn't he be, after all he's seen her go through?

"I think she just needs a second to herself," I explain patiently.

"That's the last thing she needs," Tally puts in. She doesn't sound accusatory or incredulous, just firm. "She needs to be with her friends and family. People who love her." Tally turns to Annie's parents. "Don't worry, I'll go search for her."

I watch Tally jog away after I point out the direction Annie ran. She has that same commanding, fair way of doing things that Quincy did, and it's obvious she cares for Annie very much. I like her.

Mrs. Cresta emerges shyly from behind her husband, her big eyes concentrating on me. I feel the force of a thousand hearts in those eyes. "Please," she says, "how is she doing? Is she really as...unstable as they're saying?"

"Annie's...different," I say. "It will take some adjusting to get her life pieced back together. She's quirkier than before. She has terrible nightmares, and she spaces out a lot. It's hard to get her to concentrate. Sometimes things - certain words, or sights, or smells - can trigger a reaction in her. She'll curl up and cover her ears. It will take some getting used to, but eventually you guys will develop some normalcy." I look at them intensely and I tell them the truth.

"Annie will be okay, but she will never be the same."

* * *

><p>Mr. and Mrs. Cresta leave to prepare the boat for the funeral soon after that. Tally arrives fifteen minutes later with a disheveled Annie, holding her hand as she delivers her to Victor's Village. Annie apologizes for her actions. Tally leaves her in our care to help with the funeral preparations.<p>

Annie picks out her own gray funeral apparel, but she needs help with her hair. I gently comb it out and put it in a ponytail, since the sweater and long skirt she's wearing are bound to make her hot under the steamy beach sun.

We leave for the docks after Annie's ready. Mags wanted to come with us, but she is feeling ill from the traveling. I told her to stay home; sitting under a hot sun probably isn't good for her if she's already feeling sick.

There is quite a crowd on the beach. Nearly every person in this part of District Four is here. On the boat, which is actually quite impressive in size, is Quincy's closest family and friends. I see Mr. and Mrs. Cresta up there, and Tally too.

Annie has a vice grip on my hand. It's cutting off circulation on my fingers, but I don't mind. Mrs. Cresta notices Annie there and gets her father's attention. They meet Annie's eyes for a moment. Annie stops. I stop.

After a pause she lets go of my hand and takes the first step. I don't follow her. I don't need to be on that boat. It's a sacred place for people who knew Quincy his entire life. I watch Annie take another step, and another, moving closer and closer to her family. To home.

Suddenly, as soon as Annie's foot hits the wood of the dock, the boat explodes.

"ANNIE!" That's the only word I can get out before I'm knocked off my feet by the hot force of the inferno. The boat is on fire, the dock is on fire, the beach is on fire; everything, everything is on fire. People are screaming, jumping into the water. There's sand in my eye and in my mouth. It burns. Like fire.

I sit up on my elbow and squint. The destruction is terrible. The boat is sinking, a big ball of fire. I can see bodies floating in the water already. Parts. Everywhere. My blood runs cold. I wish I could use my blood to put out the fire, to reverse what just happened.

There's a person in front of me, hunched over, making fists in the sand. Annie.

Oh, no.

Annie.

I scramble out of the sand and pick her up off the ground. My entire right side burns. Annie wraps her arms around me and squeezes as tightly as she can. Her nails dig into my back. She's shaking. She's sobbing, screaming uncontrollably.

One words rings in my head, a symphony, a serenade, a roll of thunder that drowns out everything else, even the sound of Annie's screaming.

_Consequences_.

* * *

><p>Annie's done screaming by the time we get to the hospital. She's gone hoarse.<p>

The hospital at District Four is nothing like the one in the Capitol, but it is rather nice. District Four is where most of the medical plants and herbs and extracts used in refined Capitol medicine comes from. After the Capitol and District One, where those herbs are sent to be refined, we probably have the best hospital. A lot of districts don't even have a hospital. We're just lucky, I guess.

Annie and I have minor burns. Some cold water, a few bandages, and we're done. "You'll heal in a couple days," the nurse says. She glances at Annie, who stares into space with wide, tormented eyes. She's as white as a sheet, except for the bright pink burns covered in gauze. "Physically, anyway," she adds. If it weren't for the genuine sorrow in her voice, I would have yelled at her. I need to yell at something, at someone.

Inside, I am a raging tornado. Anger doesn't even begin to cover it. I knew I was pressing my luck with the President, but nothing I did warranted this - this _massacre_. Rage swells in my chest as I listen to the reports, as I pace the hospital lobby with Annie. Twelve people found dead, twenty-seven injured. Annie's father and Tally are both gone. Mrs. Cresta is in critical care, fighting for her life. Mr. Cresta's body shielded her from a good part of the blast.

"There was no bomb aboard when we inspected the boat," the Head Peacekeeper says, over and over, like a broken record. No bomb aboard. No bomb. I want to punch him. I want to beat him to a bloody pulp. What I wouldn't give for there to be a trident in my hands.

Not rage. Not anymore. Hatred. These _creatures _murdered nearly all of Annie's family in cold blood and don't even have the decency to admit it.

I've seen this kind of technology before, plenty of times. The President likes to use it for controlled "accidents" when one of his valuable employees displeases him. All he has to do is upload the foot-pattern of the target into the explosive, and it goes off when that particular person steps near it.

I remember Annie stepping onto the dock right before it blew up.

I tried to explain this to her, but she's not listening to anything. She's long gone, gone off into Annieland. I don't know what she's hearing, but it's certainly not my voice calling her name.

Eventually I just pace, and I shout. Annie can't hear me anyway. "This is _unforgivable_! I don't even have any damn words to - that - " I pull at my hair and kick the wall. Violence. Rage. Things I've always hated. "I'm not following that - that _thing's _orders anymore!"

Annie is suddenly back in reality. Quick as lightening she grips my arm, her fingers like talons, her eyes wild with fear. "NO! Finnick, you have to do what he says!"

"Annie, he just _killed _your entire _family_! You want me to go on pretending like nothing happened?" I'm shouting at her, in her face. These cruel things. These cruel truths.

She winces and looks down at her hands. Lets go of my arm. Looks like she might cry. "I don't think I can lose you too. If you tell the President no, he'll kill you, he'll kill me; he'll kill everybody. And I'm so sick and tired of death. I don't think I can handle anymore."

Shame sweeps through me and replaces all of my rage, all of my hatred. How could I yell at her like that? How could I throw that horrible stuff in her face? As if she doesn't know all of it herself. "Okay," I hear myself say. "I won't do anything."

"Thank you," she whispers.

"How are you doing with...everything?" I ask. What a stupid question.

"I don't know," Annie responds. "I'm just kind of...scrambled right now."

I want to hold her, to rock her back and forth and lie and tell her that everything will be okay. I want to kiss the tears off of her cheeks. But I can't. I'm glued in place, standing awkwardly by her side as she puts her head in her hand and cries.

The carrot didn't work, but the stick has certainly taught me my lesson.

* * *

><p><strong>In retrospect, the whole "blowing up Annie's entire family on the day of Quincy's funeral" thing might have been a tad melodramatic, even for President Snow. It's something I probably would have changed given the chance, but <em>Sea Glass<em> has already been completed for quite some time and it would be senseless to go back and edit that now. Besides, it would also change the coarse of the rest of the story which, if I was being honest, I'm too lazy to do.**

**And because Part Two of _Salt and Sunshine_ directly corresponds with _Sea Glass_, this chapter had to be included. Say what you will, but do remember this: I'm already aware of the plot blips in this part of the story, and I don't need anyone to point that out to me. So if your constructive criticism is that this is too evil or that it doesn't make sense, then I ask you a favor: don't. I already know.**

**However, if you spot any other little errors that need to be addressed, feel free to comment. :)**


	36. AG: District Four: Healing

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **H**ealing

* * *

><p>The next few weeks are a whirlwind of activity. It reminds me of my Victory Tour, and how everything went by so quickly that I hardly got the chance to breathe. Only this time, the whirlwind is unwelcome. I don't want to forget everything that's happening. I want to grasp at every little detail, every little event, and catalogue it all in my mind.<p>

Annie's house is next to mine. Since her mother's hospitalization, she's set her mind to making it as homey as possible. This has unleashed a new fire in her, a new purpose. I'm seeing a little bit of the old Annie shine through. I think she just likes the idea that she has someone to take care of, instead of the other way around.

I'm by her side for most of the time. There are few cameras here in District Four. There are no Capitol eyes besides the President's following me.

She works nearly every day from dawn to dusk, renovating her new house. Annie always calls it "the new house" or simply "the house." But never once has she referred to it as "home." Even as she fills it with old and new furniture, even as she hangs up pictures and puts away clothes and other belongings, I can see it in her eyes; this fancy, empty house will never really be her home. Home is where the heart is, and most of her heart is scattered out to sea.

Annie fits in well with the other victors. She continues to talk almost dayly with Mags. I know that they will always remain close. She also gets along grandly with Haro, who makes her laugh. Ore has always been a bit too shy to really form any genuine friendships with any of us, but Annie tells me that he helped her move in some heavy furniture while I wasn't present and I know that they will get along fine too.

Constance is incapable of coming out to meet Annie. She's still barely hanging by a thread, but I'm pretty impressed; Constance wasn't supposed to live long enough to even have the opportunity to meet the next victor.

"Do you think I should go visit her?" Annie inquires one day.

"No," I say. "Something tells me that it won't be beneficial for either of you."

Soon after that the doorbell rings, and when Annie goes to answer it she finds Nath at her doorstep. They give each other mildly surprised looks, as though Annie didn't expect him to be standing there and Nath hadn't actually expected her to open the door for him; but of course she would, because Annie is new to the idea of a peephole.

I scowl and stalk over there, taking the door in one hand and grasping the door frame in the other, keeping Annie close to my side. "What do you want?" I snap.

Nath gives me a sour look. Obviously he's not very pleased to see me. "Look, I just came to apologize and make amends for what happened. I was drunk, okay? I didn't know what I was doing."

"Sure looked like you did," I remark. "That's no excuse, Nath, you're always drunk. Now get out of here and don't come back, or I might have to bring my trident out of retirement."

Nath holds up a basket. "I brought muffins."

"Go away, you creep." As I slam the door in his face, he gives Annie a bland 'I'm sorry.' I peek out the window to make sure that he really leaves. He does, eating a muffin on the way.

Annie gives me a look. "He was just trying to apologize, Finnick. What you did wasn't necessary."

Slowly I take in her sunkissed face, her disapproving chaotic green eyes, the freckled skin of her shoulders, the delicate hands fisted at her hips, the curled toes on her bare feet. I sigh, and brush a brown lock of hair behind her ear. "I know."

Only a few days later, Annie is on her way to the hospital to pick up her mother and finally bring her to the new house. She's only been to visit her mother a few times, mostly because she's been busy with moving in and because it seems like every time she visits her mother is asleep. They say that's a sign of depression, excessive sleeping. But I don't say that to Annie.

I walk with her to the hospital today, just like I have always done. I never go into the room with her, I just wait in the lobby, but it makes me feel good knowing I'm there with her. The fact that I'm leaving for a "pleasurable" trip to the Capitol in only a few days is encouragement as well. I guess I think that maybe if I spend a whole bunch of time with her now, it won't be as bad when I leave. I know I'm wrong, but it's worth a shot.

Annie is a squirming ball of nerves. She doesn't like hospitals; an understandable sentiment, considering her experiences with them. I'm not particularly fond of them either. As we're waiting for Mrs. Cresta, she wiggles around in her seat and fiddles with her hands, her hair, her clothes. She taps little tunes on the wooden armrests. A part of me is irritated, but I just take a deep breath. _She's nervous_, I tell myself. _She's just nervous_.

Across the room, a mother snaps at her son to be still.

Then Annie sighs. And she heaves another one. And another. My gaze flickers up at the ticking clock above the desk, then back at her. "Annie," I say, unable to keep quiet, "you do realize it's only been five minutes, right?"

She groans and squishes her face into her hands, hiding it from view. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, thinking that maybe if I'm calm it will influence her emotions a little. It works, for a short while. I'm almost on the brink of dozing off when I feel Annie's hand on my shoulder. "Finnick?"

"Yes?" I reply, opening one eye. She sounds like a scared, worried little girl, and she looks like one too.

"Oh, um...nothing." Annie's face glows red and she sits back down in her own seat, looking down at her hands. I shrug and close my eyes again. But I tap my foot on the ground, just so Annie can see that I'm moving and okay. I know from the look in her eyes that my stillness bothers her.

"Annie Cresta?" a nurse calls.

Annie shoots out of her seat so fast, it reminds me of a wind-up Jack-in-the-Box that I often see displayed in toy store windows in the Capitol. "That's me!" she says.

Another nurse wheels in Mrs. Cresta. Her legs are still in bad shape, all covered in bandages and gauze, but the rest of her looks relatively unscathed. Her honey-blonde hair is short and spiky around her face, starting to grow back after the nurses shaved off all the burned parts. But her face is sallow and gray, her eyes blank dark holes. To me she seems more like a skeleton than the elegant woman I met before.

Annie hesitates. Then she steps forward and begins talking to the nurse, shaking her head up and down vigorously, like a child receiving instructions from a teacher. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I'm glad that Annie can still be a child, in some way at least, even if she is broken and wise beyond her years at the same time.

I stand and stretch, making my way over to them just as the nurse says, "Are you sure you can handle this? She can stay here for a little longer, just until she's fully - "

"She can handle it," I interrupt firmly. This nurse doesn't need to plant any ideas into Annie's head that she's incapable of doing anything.

Annie looks down at her shoes, embarrassed, I think, by my tone of voice, but she gives the nurse a smile and says, "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Okay." The nurse signs a sheet. I offer to push Mrs. Cresta's wheelchair, but Annie wants to do it. The three of us exit the hospital, an unlikely trio. Annie gibbers on for about two minutes, and then the conversation slowly dies. Mrs. Cresta kills it with her abysmal eyes. She kills the words in my mouth.

We finally make it to Victor's Village after a long stretch of silence. I help Annie maneuver her mother into the house. We stand there in awkward silence for a moment. Then Annie clears her throat. "So...are you hungry?" she asks her mother. "Or thirsty?"

Mrs. Cresta pauses. "...I'm tired," she says finally, slowly getting out of her wheelchair. She shuffles away from us and down the shadowed hallway, shutting the door to her bedroom with a solid thud behind her.

"Okay," Annie calls after her. "Maybe we can, um, go take a walk on the beach later...or something..." She trails off, looking at her feet again. Annie must have her feet committed to memory, as often as she looks down at them.

I take her chin and make her look up. Tears aren't gathering in her eyes, but they might as well be. She looks utterly hopeless. "Do you want me to stay?" I ask. I've spent the night at Annie's house quite a few times, but of course we've never had sex. In fact, once we did nothing but sleep on the couch. It was actually kind of nice.

"No, you can go home if you want to. You have to pack anyway," Annie reminds me.

"Ugh," I groan. "You're right. I'll see you later." I take her face in my hands and give her a kiss before I turn toward the door. When I look back, Annie is still watching me leave. I smile at her. "Are you _sure _you want me to go?"

"Yes," she replies, exasperated, as she gives me a weak shove out the door. "You need to go pack for your trip."

I grin wider and grab her by the waist, pulling her closer for a deeper kiss. Maybe I can convince her that I don't need to go pack...even though I desperately do. "You're _sure_ you're sure?"

"Mmm...yes, I'm still sure."

Suddenly it occurs to me that I am being rejected, and the thought is so funny that I burst into laughter, releasing her and stepping onto the porch. "Annie, you really are crazy."

"What?" she exclaims, astounded.

I shake my head and make a sweeping gesture at my physique. "Refusing this body..."

"Get out," Annie scoffs, this time nearly pushing me off of her porch.

"Yes, ma'am," I grin, shooting her a salute before taking the steps two at a time and jogging over to my house.

"Don't get lost on your way there!" Annie calls after me, a joke between the two of us since my house is right beside hers. I give a dismissive wave of my hand and hop up the steps. Before I open the door, I glance over at Annie's porch to see she still has her eyes on me. I smile, wave, and blow her a kiss. She rolls her eyes and walks inside her own house.

I watch the door shut behind her, wishing that I was still beside her.

* * *

><p>Packing is a slow, painful process. It seems bizarre to me that I need to pack the most mundane things for my own personal week of torment. Things like the toothbrush I can't find.<p>

_Must have left it at Annie's_, I think, tossing a pair of pants into my duffel bag. It's not like a need much; the Capitol could supply anything I desired. I could get on the train nude and still survive without inconvenience for the next week. Personally, it's just nice for me to know that I have my own belongings with me, even if it's something as insignificant as a sock.

Eventually I give up on it and flop down on the bed beside my bag, closing my eyes in preparation for blissful sleep.

I'm caught in that place between dreams and awareness when I hear the thunder of fists at my front door. I shoot out of bed with my pulse pounding in my ears. Who's visiting at this hour? Peacekeepers? What would they want with me?

Faintly, I hear my name being called.

It's not Peacekeepers.

I open the front door, and Annie is standing there. She's a wreck. Tears and mucus are streaming down her face, and her hair is plastered to her neck with sweat. I have the time to absorb only this before she's latched onto me, sobbing with relief in my chest.

"Annie, what's wrong?" I ask frantically, gently prying her off of me. "Did something happen with your mother?"

Her face drains of color, and her eyes fill with a kind of guilty horror. "My mother! I completely forgot about her!" She wheels around on her heel and tries to run back to her house, most likely to check that her mother is okay, but I grab the back of her damp shirt before she gets too far.

"First tell me what's going on."

"There was tunnel and blue light and I couldn't get to it no matter how hard I tried, but then suddenly it was all around me and I couldn't breathe, it was like I was drowning, and the whole time my head was pounding and I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe, and then my neck burned and my head - it - it - "

I relax a fraction. "It was just another nightmare," I say.

"Right." Annie stops, considers this, and nods to herself. "Right. Just a nightmare."

I can hear the crashing of the waves on the shore as we stand there in silence, digesting this. Finally, I take Annie's sweaty hand and lead her off of my porch. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. You're a mess."

Annie is silent until we get to her house. "Will you check on my mother and see if she's okay?" she asks in a quiet whisper.

"I'm sure she's fine," I say back.

"Please?"

I look at her anxious face and stifle a sigh, nodding. Mrs. Cresta's door is locked, but it's easy to pick with a little trick Johanna taught me. Annie's mother reminds me of a sculpture, all hard angles and lines in the moonlight. She's turned over on her side, asleep in bed.

Annie bites her lip. "Are you sure she's okay?"

"Would you like me to check her pulse?" I say sarcastically, immediately regretting saying anything when Annie looks at me with hopeful eyes. I remember her shaking my shoulder when we were in the hospital and I had gone still. Annie doesn't like stillness. I walk across the room and gently press my finger to Mrs. Cresta's wrist. She is, predictably, alive.

After that, Annie is completely compliant. I take her back to her room and assess the damage. The sheets are soaked in sweat, bundled and bunched in every possible way. Vomit coats the bottom of the tub in the bathroom. _Must've been one hell of a nightmare_, I think to myself. I don't say anything though, I don't even crack a joke, because I can see the shame in Annie's eyes. She hates being so helpless, so vulnerable.

I tell Annie to take a shower in the bathroom across the hall while I clean out the tub in this one. I also change out the sheets with fresh ones and lay out some new pajamas for her.

As I do all of this, I wonder if this nightmare is another one of the President's schemes. Maybe a warning not to let Annie's presence affect my performance in the Capitol? As though blowing up an entire shipful of Annie's closest friends and family wasn't enough. As though I would forget that in only a few weeks.

Annie pads in wearing her clean pajamas and smelling of soap while I rinse out the tub one more time. I ask her questions while she brushes her teeth.

"Are you hearing any voices again?"

She shakes her head.

"Have you had this nightmare before?"

Again, another head shake.

"Has anyone been acting suspicious around you?"

Annie spits in the sink. "Well, there is this one guy."

I raise my eyebrows, suddenly alert. "Who? What does he look like?"

"He's pretty tall and tan and muscular, and he's got bronze hair and these big green eyes that make girls melt. He keeps following me around everywhere. I think he's under the impression that I like him or something." Annie gives me a sly smile.

I break into a grin. "Oh, he's not under any impressions. He _knows_ you love him."

"I do." Annie's smile slides into something soft and almost heartbreaking in its tenderness. "Love you, I mean."

My heart does a little somersault. "I love you, too." I think that Annie is the only one I've ever loved, besides maybe Mags and Johanna. But she's the first person I've ever said it to. She's the only one I've ever loved like this.

Annie wants to check on her mother one last time, but she doesn't make me check her pulse. Then I coax her back into bed, promising her that I'll be there if she has another nightmare. She curls up next to me, warm and fragrant and shower-soft. I listen to her breathe, I listen to her sleep. For a second I hate the President and every Capitol woman that is tearing me away from her. But most of all, I hate myself.

* * *

><p><strong>Some more AnnieFinnick goodness. Tell me your thoughts.**


	37. AG: District Four: The First Travel

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **F**irst **T**ravel

* * *

><p>I have trouble getting out of bed the next morning. It's one of those moments when you're so comfortable that you're afraid to move and shatter the feeling. I'm wrapped in the warm blankets, soft and safe. Annie is curled up beside me, sleeping peacefully, her face untroubled. I gently touch her forehead with the pad of my thumb. Already she's developing lines there on the freckled skin. The hair at the nape of her neck is still damp from her midnight shower.<p>

Carefully I untangle myself from her. There's really no need to be careful; after nightmares, Annie sleeps like the dead. But I'm always careful anyway.

I walk into the kitchen and grab ingredients for breakfast. As I'm toasting some bread, I hear a noise behind me, the dry scrape of shuffling feet. Then: "What are you doing here?"

Mrs. Cresta is staring at me, looking...annoyed? No, more than annoyed, but less than angry. Somewhere in between. But considering that's the first emotion I've seen from her at all, I decide that it's progress and answer her question politely. "Making breakfast. Would you like some jam on your toast?"

"Did you...did you spend the night with my daughter?" It takes me a moment to process the question, because the answer is painstakingly obvious, but then I finally realize the implications and the impression she probably has of me and I hastily explain.

"No, no - well, yes, but - "

Mrs. Cresta's pale face grows slightly pink. "Listen here, Finnick Odair, I know all about your reputation with women and I'm only going to say this once - "

"Please, Mrs. Cresta, listen to me," I interrupt. "It's really not what it looks like. I didn't..._sleep _with Annie, not like you think. We haven't...I mean - I wouldn't do that. Not now, I mean - what I mean to say is, we haven't had sex and I'm not making any plans to take advantage of her like that. Annie is...special to me. More special than you can even imagine. I'd do everything in my power to protect her, to make her happy." I almost say that I would never do anything to hurt her, but I know that's a lie. So instead I say, "I love her."

"...I believe you," she says after a long stretch of heavy silence. She turns and goes to scoot out of the room.

"Wait!" I call after her. She hesitates, then slowly turns back around. I hold out a plate of eggs. "Will you eat with me, Mrs. Cresta?"

She doesn't really answer; she looks down at her scarred, bandaged feet. Like Annie does. Then she looks at me again. I'm still holding the plate of lukewarm eggs out to her. "Call me Ethelinde," she says. And she lowers herself into a seat.

"Ethelinde," I repeat, trying it out on my tongue. "That's a beautiful name."

Wordlessly she accepts the toast and jam, but she doesn't eat it. She just stares at nothing. After a long pause, I put my fork down with a clatter. Ethelinde jumps violently, startled out of a reverie.

"Stop," I tell her. "Just stop right now. Whatever you're thinking of, where ever you're going, just stop it. I'm sorry, I know you've been through a lot. Trust me, I know. But you can't be like this. Annie needs you."

Ethelinde bites her lip and looks away. "She doesn't. Not anymore..."

"She does. She needs you more now than ever. Your return has been the only thing that's kept her motivated these past few weeks, and you don't know how much it hurts her seeing you like this. But she's putting up a brave front because she knows that you need her just as much as she needs you."

"You're delirious if you think that she needs me anymore. She's been through hell and back; she doesn't need anybody," Ethelinde hisses. "She can take care of herself. I'm just a burden to her now."

"Do you know why I'm here?" I ask, my voice trembling with frustration. "Do you know why I spent the night? Because Annie came _screaming _to my house last night. She had a nightmare. It was so bad that she got sick. She needed somebody to be there with her, for her, to tell her that it was fake." I walk over to Ethelinde and kneel in front of her, grabbing her shoulders. "Tonight, I'm not going to be here if she needs me," I tell her, a pleading edge to my voice now. "I'm going to be gone. I have to go to the Capitol; I don't have any choice, and you don't know how much it kills me. I'm leaving tonight, but I'll be damned before I leave Annie to _this_." I point directly at her. "She needs her mother, Ethelinde. She needs _you_."

Ethelinde stares at me with wide, shell shocked eyes. I see the long column of her throat leap as she swallows her silence. She looks down. "Annie has always had bad nightmares," she murmurs.

I allow myself a smile, because I know from the light in her dark eyes that I've won her over. We are united by a common purpose: Annie's well being. "Would you like some orange juice?" I ask her pleasantly.

"Yes, please."

I amuse her with funny stories until Annie pads in, looking relatively shocked to see her mother and me getting along so well. "Good morning," I say with a little too much enthusiasm, passing her a plate and pecking her on the cheek.

"Good morning," Annie replies hesitantly, glancing at her mother.

Ethelinde has suddenly gone frosty again, retreating into herself like a turtle into its shell. I think Annie reminds her too much of Quincy and her husband. Reminds her of what she's lost. But she quietly asks Annie how she's doing.

"Fine," Annie replies. "I didn't wake you up last night, did I?"

"No, Finnick told me what happened."

Annie seems encouraged by these complete sentences she's getting as responses. "Oh, good. I'm glad you slept well. After breakfast do you want to do something? We can go to the beach or into town..."

"You're running low on food," I say, which is a complete lie. With only Annie and occasionally me eating here, there is plenty. But it gives them an excuse to go out other than to get the doctor-prescribed exercise that Ethelinde has to do.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather stay here..." Ethelinde mutters.

"Oh..." Annie's eagerness is sapped away as suddenly as it came. "Okay, that's fine. We do have to walk at least a mile today though."

"I can't come with Annie anyway. I have to finish packing," I say to Ethelinde, a subtle reminder. _I won't be here for a week. Please, I you can do this_.

"I suppose I could come into town with you then." She stands. "I just need to go change my bandages."

"Do you need help?" Annie inquires.

"NO!" Ethelinde strides from the room as quickly as her damaged legs will let her. Annie reels like she's just been slapped as her mother slams the door.

"She's only been here one day, Annie," I say gently. "Give her time."

"I know," she sighs. In the quiet, we hear faint sobs coming from Ethelinde's room. Annie jumps out of her chair, but I grab her before she can go barging in. From her reaction to the offer to help with the bandages, something tells me that Ethelinde doesn't want Annie to see her weakness.

"If she closed the door, she obviously doesn't want you hearing."

"But she's all alone in there, crying..."

"Trust me, just let her get it all out. Like I said, give her time."

"Time," Annie huffs. She rests her head on my shoulder. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"Actually, I'm leaving this evening."

"Oh."

"I'll be back in about a week."

Annie nuzzles me. "I'll miss you."

"Eh, I'll be back before you know it," I say, trying to make a joke out of it, to cheer her up, to ignore the knots in my stomach. I wonder if I'll have ulcers when I'm older. "I'll be looking forward to our reunion."

I can feel the heat from Annie's blush through my shirt. After a moment she sits up and raises her arms above her head, stretching in preparation for the day. Her mother has stopped crying. "I should probably get ready to go. Do you want to come with us?"

"No, I wouldn't want to interfere with your mother-daughter bonding time. Besides, I still have a few things to pack up before I leave."

Annie bites her lip. "Make sure you come back and get me before you leave."

"I will," I say, giving her a brief kiss. "Have fun with your mother."

"I'll try," she says.

I don't go to my house; I don't have anything else to pack, really. Instead, I meander my way through Victor's Village and knock on Mags's door. Even though it's early, I know she'll be awake. It seems sometimes like Mags never sleeps.

"Come in," I hear her call. I try the knob (I've told her countless times that she should keep it locked, but of course she never does) and do just that, moseying through the house until I find her on the back porch with the door open. All of the houses in Victor's Village have a spectacular ocean view. This morning the tempest is a slate grey, foamy with the promise of an oncoming storm. The breeze is chilly.

"Shouldn't you have a blanket or something?" I ask Mags, who is sitting on an old rocking chair watching the sea. I sit in the other chair, my feet planted on the ground. I've never liked rocking chairs.

Mags gives me a toothless grin. "You my mother?"

"Sometimes I wish I was. Then maybe you'd listen to me."

"In your dreams," Mags gurgles with a bark of laughter. Today is one of the bad days when she has more trouble with her speech. They happen every now and again.

I chuckle and smile, closing my eyes. The sea breeze is nice on my skin. Mags's chair creaks, and I feel her dry fingers on my face. "Shave," she says with disapproval. She's right. The stubble on my chin is fairly long.

"Sorry. I've been..."

"Busy?"

"Yeah." I was going to say distracted, but I don't like that word anymore. It's tainted. "And I'm sorry I haven't been visiting you."

"Capitol?"

"Yeah."

"Annie?"

"Yeah."

It's silent except for the crashing of the waves and the sound of the seagulls. An hour later, I get up and leave so I can take a shower. "Be careful," she says to me as I go.

I give her a smile that I think is sad.

With Mags, it's never the words that matter. It's always the silence.

* * *

><p>I try to sleep some, but of course I don't. I eat lunch. I pack a few extra things.<p>

When I have an hour until departure, I grab the bag off of my bed and head over to Annie's house to wait for her, to say good bye. I wait, and I wait. After about forty minutes, I start pacing. Where is she?

Finally I see her coming up the path with her mother. I'm relieved to see them, and happily note that they are getting along much better, chatting as they carry their purchases down the path.

"I'm glad you made it," I say, jogging over to Annie. "A few more minutes and I would have had to leave. I'm running late as it is."

Annie is obviously shocked. "You're leaving now?"

"I'm going inside," Ethelinde says, extracting the bags from Annie's arms. Annie doesn't seem to notice; she looks utterly horrified. As soon as Ethelinde closes the door, I take Annie in my arms and hold her tight. I wish I never had to let go.

"I only have a few minutes," I say into her hair, "but I had to come say good bye."

Annie doesn't say anything; she just clings to me. Eventually I let her go and take a step back, tracing her face with my eyes. Every shadow, every scar, every freckle. Perfection. "I have to leave now. Is there anything you need before I go?"

She opens her mouth like she's getting ready to say something, then closes it.

"Anything, Annie. You name it."

"W-will...will you kiss me?" Annie's face goes crimson as soon as the words leave her mouth, and she ducks down at the ground, embarrassed. I resist the temptation to smile and take her face in my hands. It's warm.

Annie squeezes her eyes shut, her face pinched as though the world will stop if she can't see it. This time I don't even bother to stop the grin from creeping onto my face. "Annie, what are you doing?"

"Nothing. Never mind, you don't have to kiss me. Have a safe trip."

I roll my eyes and smirk at her again, waiting for her to open her eyes. She doesn't. I sigh. I think of all the kissing I'll be doing in the next week. I don't want to kiss Annie. Not like that.

I lean down and brush my lips along her own, pouring everything I feel for her into that gentle caress. When I pull back, her eyes are the size of saucers. I can't bring myself to stop smiling at her expression. "I love you, Annie."

I don't think she says anything; I don't wait for her to. I know that if I stay there for another moment, then I won't have the will to leave. I throw the bag over my shoulder and stride down the path. Each step is an eternity. With each step I can feel Annie tearing the heart right out of my chest. I can't breathe. My lungs are filled with emotion. I'm over capacity, full to bursting. I'm brimming with dread.

The first fat drops of rain splatter on the window of the train only a few minutes later. Below me, I can see the waves churning. Above me, the clouds are writhing.

The ocean is finally shedding her salty tears.

* * *

><p><strong>Shortish, uneventfulish chapter. Terribly sorry about that. The next chapter will be equally shortish and uneventfulish, I'm afraid, and the chapter after that will be the last one in Part Two. Then I will take a brief hiatus and come back with Part Three: The Quarter Quell on July 7th. <strong>


	38. AG: The Capitol: Circles

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **C**ircles

* * *

><p>I step into the streets of the Capitol, blinded by the midday sun. It bounces off the cobblestones and the candy-colored houses, off the pastel makeup and neon wigs of the residents. I rub my eyes, feeling grit beneath my fingers; I haven't slept since Annie's nightmare.<p>

_Annie_.

A pang of pure anguish penetrates the numbness that has chilled my insides. So this is what it's like to feel.

The limousine waits discreetly in a parking space, a sleek black masterpiece with tinted windows and cool leather seats. I slide in, shoving my bag under my feet. Without a word, the driver starts forward to the first address.

* * *

><p>A door opens.<p>

Perfume, sweet and sugary, clinging to the back of my throat like gum on the bottom of someone's shoe.

Hands, gentle, slow, dry, stroking my skin, coaxing me toward the bed.

Murmured assurances. Sighs. Gasps. Breathy laughter.

Hair that curls in florescent spirals across a silky pillow; feathers on the ground.

Glitter in my mouth, coating my tongue, salty from exposed skin. A clavicle shadow thrown in sharp relief by an equally sharp intake of breath; a loud moan.

Fists in the sheets, bunching them together. Slippery fingers pulling my hair.

Quiet reprieve, fluttering eyelids, the tide going down. A satisfied sigh. A caress.

A brush of the lips. Eyelashes tickling my face. A flood of warm vanilla scent.

A click as the door closes.

* * *

><p>The hiss of a shower. Her figure eight times over as she strips in front of the mirror. I can see every detail, every curve, of her body. Every imperfection, everything I do not want.<p>

Sweet, blissful numb as I strip my own clothes. Searing pain as the hot streams of water pound on my back, nullified into pleasant warmth with time.

Slippery tiles. A jarring pain in the back of my head when it hits the tiled wall.

Pushing lank, wet strands of hair back from her forehead. Drops of water poised on eyelashes. Eyes full of lust; lips parted with lust.

The sound of the drain on the floor. It doesn't drown out the echoing thumps and grunts.

Hands wrapped around knees. Pale green thighs wrapped around me. Nothing to grip but body, but flesh.

An arching back. An exposed throat. A wave of intense heat.

Wrinkled toes, wrinkled fingers. Lemon-scented soap. White towels. One more damp, shower-soft kiss. A note tucked into my hand.

Steam clouds the mirror. I wipe it away and see the filthiest man alive.

* * *

><p>Wrestling.<p>

Growling. Moaning. Screaming.

Cruel laughter. A cry of pain. Pleading for more.

Rough hands trying to keep me in place. Slippery skin that I can't grasp, can't hold down. A bruising grip. A hiss as claws rake my back, drawing blood.

Smeared red lipstick. Bared white teeth.

Teeth breaking skin.

Thrashing limbs, contorting, twisting. A heavy thump as we hit the ground. Sweat, sticky and salty. Pushing away. Pulling closer. Thrust.

Panting. Racing hearts.

Racing to the bathroom, retching in the clean porcelain toilet. Burning nose, burning throat, burning body. Shame. Hatred.

A word.

_Annie_.

* * *

><p>It's Friday. I think.<p>

"Yes, sir," the limousine driver answers. I hadn't realized I'd said anything aloud. My muscles ache. I ache all over.

Annie dominates my thoughts. I feel Annie in the gentle kisses, in the soft caresses. I see Annie in damp hair and shower-soft skin. I miss Annie with every bruise, every scrape.

I want to forget her name. I think I liked being completely numb better than this constant turmoil, this constant pain. It is the pain of a despicable man, and I hate it. I want to forget her name, just this week. I want to forget her.

It occurs to me that I've never bothered to ask the limousine driver his name. So I do.

"Rufus," he tells me. He doesn't look like a Rufus. He looks much too severe, much to serious.

I say: "I'm Finnick."

Rufus doesn't reply. I don't blame him. It was a stupid thing for me to say.

After a few more minutes of silence, Rufus asks me if I want to stop by my hotel room that I haven't even slept in to get my things.

"No," I answer. "Just leave them. Let's head right on to the train station. I just want to go home." Home is where the heart is. Home is Annie.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes. And you can call me Finnick if you want."

Rufus responds with yet another "Yes, sir." I doubt that he will every call me by my actual name, no matter how many times I tell him.

I close my eyes. It doesn't matter. At least I'm finally going home. I've made it. Without a visit from the President, no less. For a moment I'm apprehensive about this fact, but then I come to the conclusion that no news is better than bad news.

Rufus drops me off at the train station. I'm very early, nearly an hour to wait until the train to District Four gets here. I open the door and get out, assuring Rufus that I will wait on a bench at the train station. He's done enough sitting in the limousine because of me.

I find a nice bench and hide my face behind a fashion magazine for the next hour. When my train finally arrives, it takes every ounce of will power I have not to run right onto it. Home. Annie. Home. The thought makes me happy, it makes me sick.

I look out the window just in time to see a black limousine pulling out of the lot.

* * *

><p><strong>A very short chapter, I know. I wanted to make it kind of blurry, nondescript, rushed in a way. The next chapter will be the last in this segment, and then I'll continue updating on July 7th. Until then, share with me your thoughts.<strong>


	39. AG: District Four: Marry Me

**PART TWO: The Sea Glass Games**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **M**arry **M**e

* * *

><p>The train takes all day to get to District Four. I sleep, mainly, while I'm aboard, and try to stifle my growing excitement and anxiety. I'm relieved to return home, but what will await me?<p>

As dusk begins to fall, I get out of bed and pull myself together. I brush my hair, my teeth, wash my face. When I eat dinner alone in my little compartment, the white rose in the cut-crystal vase on my dresser is wilting. I wonder if this is a good omen or a bad one.

It's late when I finally step off of the train. I wonder if Annie has fallen asleep yet. I know she hasn't. I'm proven correct when she comes sprinting toward me as soon as she spots me from her front porch. "Finnick!" she cries, jumping right into my arms. I stagger back under the force of impact, but I manage to keep us both upright. "I'm so glad you're home!"

"I can tell," I laugh. The sound releases the tightly coiled stress in my bones, unleashes soothing relief through my veins. I take in the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin, her small waist in my hands. "I'm glad I'm home, too. Did I miss anything?"

"Only everything," Annie says, pulling back. Her smile is quick and uneasy, and I know she isn't teasing me. I've missed something, all right. Something big. "Come on inside, unless you want to drop off your luggage first."

"No," I sigh, thinking of the empty bed on the train, "I think I'll stay with you tonight. If that's okay?"

"Of course," she says, her face blossoming with pink.

I grin. "Annie, are you having naughty thoughts?"

"No!" Her face glows crimson. I laugh and cup her chin in my hand, kissing her forehead. It's nice to know I can still come to a place where I don't have to do anything but speak to make a girl blush.

"It's good to be back," I remark, stepping inside. Ethelinde is there, looking much better than when I last saw her. She even smiles when she sees me.

"Hello there, stranger," she greets me. "How was your trip?"

I wish she hadn't asked me that. "It's over. What happened while I was away?"

Annie plops down beside me on the couch, tucking her feet under her. Ethelinde claims the rocking chair across from us, looking solemn. "A lot," Annie says. "Constance Truman is dead."

I'm actually shocked. Constance has been hanging by a thread for so long. She was supposed to have died months ago, before the last Hunger Games ended. And although Constance was my neighbor, I don't feel anything other than shock at the news of her death. "Really? When?"

"Yesterday evening. I...witnessed it," Annie mutters, looking down. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God, how did Constance die? What happened? What did Annie see?

"Apparently Constance's body had finally reached its limit. The nurse said she was bound to die within the hour. She was in a drunken state on her front porch when Annie passed by," Ethelinde takes over, a disapproving note to her voice. "Apparently she convinced Annie to get drunk with her and died soon afterward. Annie stumbled home, _giggling_, and informed me. I had Mags stay here with her while I sorted everything out. Constance was buried outside her house this morning."

I'm in awe. I'm not sure what's harder to believe: Annie getting drunk or Constance actually kicking the bucket. But I don't say anything.

"Nobody even came to her funeral," Annie whispers. "No one but Mags, Ore, me, and Mother. No one said anything on her behalf. Mags and Ore left before she was even buried. It was horrible, Finnick."

"It's unfortunate," I say, "but nothing that she didn't bring on herself. Constance wasn't exactly the most hospitable person, Annie."

"But still!" Annie snaps. "She deserved better! Everyone deserves better than _that_!"

"Enough," Ethelinde says, not unkindly. She leans over and lays a comforting hand on Annie's arm. "Annie, why don't you tell Finnick about your nightmare?"

"You had another one?" I exclaim.

Annie ducks behind her hair. "I don't remember it."

Ethelinde purses her lips. She obviously doesn't believe Annie. I don't either. Perhaps she was hoping that Annie would come clean to me. Annie changes the subject and refuses to discuss the topic any further.

We dawdle in idle chit-chat for the rest of the night, until Ethelinde goes to bed. I eat something and then Annie and I do the same.

Once Annie has changed and we slip under the covers, I roll over and prop my head up on my hand, smiling at her. "So, what was your nightmare really about?" I ask cordially.

"I don't remember, like I said," Annie insists, though she's so obviously lying that I'm a tad affronted she would even try to pretend.

"You always remember. Please?" I unleash the power of my eyes on her, something I haven't done in a while. Usually I don't need to persuade Annie this much to get her to tell me what's on her mind.

She shakes her head.

"Pretty please?"

"You know that stuff won't work on me," she says haughtily, looking away from my gaze.

I give up on trying to get a serious answer out of her. I haven't seen her in a week; this isn't the time to argue. "I can only assume I was involved then," I sigh dramatically, expecting her to snap at me for being conceited.

Instead, she says, "Maybe you were."

She immediately regrets she said anything, I can tell. Because I tense up, and so does she. If I'm in Annie's nightmares while I'm gone, there's only one thing they can be about. "What was your dream about?" I ask her with more venom than I intend, sitting up on my elbow so I can loom over her. My shadow engulfs her, and I feel like a playground bully. But this is important.

She bites her lip.

"Annie. I need to know. Please."

"Fine, I'll tell you," she relents. "It started off with me running through the streets of the Capitol, and everywhere I went the color disappeared. Everything was black and white. Everything died. I ran for a while, looking for something. I was looking for you.

"Eventually I ended up where I began, and I was sad that I couldn't find you. I needed to...to save you from something. I fell to the ground and wept. Then I heard a voice. 'What if he doesn't want to be rescued?' it said. I looked up at the sky and I saw your face, only you didn't look like yourself; you looked like President Snow in a way. It was the President's voice coming out of your mouth. He told me that I was a silly little girl and that you didn't care about me anymore. He told me to leave you alone.

"Then I saw you at the end of the street, and you had a line of beautiful women behind you. There were a hundred of them. I heard the ticking of a clock and your face in the sky had become a clock, only the hands didn't move. My hands had become old and wrinkly. I was an old woman. You walked toward me, and then passed me without even noticing me. All of the girls did, though, and they each took their long nails and dragged them along my throat, cutting a line. The last one stopped, and there was blood on her finger from my throat. She licked it off and then took my head in her hands and snapped my neck. Then I woke up."

Annie waits for my reaction, as still as I am. While she told her story I had laid down, closed my eyes. I am seeing red behind my eyelids. I am livid, and I'm doing my best to keep it under control. I'm not angry at Annie, or even at the President. Who is there to be angry at but myself? It is my fault that Annie feels this way, that she feels like a little girl in comparison to the Capitol women. She feels like I don't care about her enough. She feels like she needs to save me when she's already done so much.

And decapitation is still a recurring factor in her nightmares. She's still haunted by Quincy's death.

"Annie," I say, "you have nothing to worry about. I don't care about any of those people."

When she doesn't say anything, I open my eyes and look at her. She's staring at me quietly, waiting for me to go on. She knows I still have more to say. "Do you really think that you're just a little girl compared to them? They're selfish and cruel and spoiled. And when it comes to appearance, they're all freakish, verging on grotesque. You have nothing to worry about."

"It's just that..." Annie blushes, burying her face in the pillow. "I don't like that they have you in a way that I don't."

Sex. She's talking to me about sex. "They don't have me in any way, Annie. You have me in every way," I tell her fiercely. "I love _you_, and only you, which is why I don't want to rush into things right now. I want to make it last. I want to do something right."

"Really?" she says. "You're not just feeding me corny, romantic stuff to get me to quit whining?"

I'm a little bit offended. "I wouldn't call it corny...but yes, I mean it. Every word of it."

"Thank you, Finnick," Annie says, smiling with relief. "I don't think I have to say how I feel about you."

"Say it just in case, so there's no misunderstanding."

"I love you," she says, laughing.

"I'm glad we understand each other," I say, with the face of a businessman making a deal. "Now, to seal it with a kiss."

Annie stops me by putting her fingers to my mouth. "Finnick?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you marry me?"

I open one eye and look at her. I almost hope she's joking, but she's dead serious. "Annie," I say sadly, "you know I can't do that because of my job."

"Not _now_," Annie amends, blushing. "I'm too young anyway. But I think that one day we'll be able to."

"When I'm too old for the Capitol girls, you mean?" I ask, confused. Even then I doubt I'll get a break; the plastic surgeons in the Capitol are masters at their craft.

"No, I think it'll happen before then. Sooner than you think," she says wistfully, pondering the thought. Perhaps she thinks that the President has a little bit of mercy in him (though I highly doubt it) or maybe she's even thinking about rebellion, of overthrowing the rule of the Capitol. I don't bother to point out to her that there's no imminent threat to the President on the horizon, or that the last time we tried to rebel a whole society of people were nuked into oblivion. I just let her enjoy her hopeful fairytale land and keep her safe from harsh reality.

Harsh reality can drive someone insane.

"Okay, then. I accept," I say. "One day, sooner than you think, we'll get married."

Annie grins. "You may kiss the bride!"

I do.

* * *

><p><strong>And that's a wrap, folks! At least for Part Two.<strong>

**The first chapter of Part Three: The Quarter Quell will be published in July. The only reason I'm going on hiatus now is so I can reread Catching Fire to make sure I get everything right. Also, I have a lot going on in June and I know I won't be able to get all of the chapters in on time. **

**Until then, have a good summer!**


	40. CF: District Four: The Announcement

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **A**nnouncement

* * *

><p><em>Haymitch leans in close so I can hear the soft tone of his voice over the roar of the crowd outside, the roar of anger, of rebellion. The roar for Katniss Everdeen and her all-too willing conspirator, Peeta Mellark.<em>

_"There's something brewing," he says. There is a bright shine in his eyes that I didn't even know existed. This is the first time he's ever talked to me that I haven't smelled alcohol on his breath. "A storm. I know you can feel it here. It's like this in other places too. Eleven, Eight; they're willing to fight. They _want_ to. With her."_

_"But how far are they willing to go?" I ask. I don't need Haymitch Abernathy to tell me all of this; I already know from the restless atmosphere of District Four that something is amiss. Or rather, there is something extra; Katniss Everdeen gave them something, just like I know she gave Haymitch this light. But how much is she willing to give them?_

_Haymitch knows what I'm thinking. He stands up. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve are done speaking. They'll be waiting for his guidance any moment now. He turns back as he steps out the door to meet his victors._

_"As much as it takes."_

_Haymitch closes the door behind him. I shake my head, uneasy, and turn to the window. I'm not supposed to meet Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, but I can see them from the window of the secluded room Haymitch suggested we meet in. They walk hand-in-hand, like two lost children in a fairytale. Katniss has a long, purposeful stride, but she doesn't seem to know where she's going other than just _away_. Peeta stops walking abruptly, his blonde head glowing like a halo, and makes her look at him. Her expression is profoundly afraid._

_Peeta caresses her face, and drops his hand when she turns away. He lets go of her hand and walks on, but Katniss stays, staring at the ground. She reminds me of a pillar on the verge of collapse._

_I wonder if she's already given all she can give._

"Finnick."

I open my eyes slowly, taking stock of my surroundings. I'm not in the Justice Building of District Four, staring out the window at Katniss Everdeen's moment of weakness; I'm at Annie's house in Victor's Village, sitting on the couch in front of her television. I've apparently dozed off.

Annie is sitting beside me, administering a slight pressure to my hand. It's been five years since her Hunger Games. The evidence written on her face; at the age of twenty-two, she has three faint creases running horizontally on her forehead like lines on paper. They weren't there until recently.

I am twenty-four now. That's all I can say.

Mags lowers herself into the rocking chair placed there especially for her. I have one at my house too. She likes rocking chairs, and they suit her. Mags hasn't changed much in these past five years. Perhaps she's become a little more shriveled. She can't do her intricate wire sculptures anymore because of her arthritis, so she does sea glass mosaics that Annie loves and has displayed all over her house.

Ethelinde recovered from the explosion at Quincy's funeral remarkably. She needs a cane and her legs are permanently mangled, but she gets along well with everyone now. We can't take her near the ocean, though. She becomes hysterical whenever anyone tries to swim.

I smile at Annie and touch her face. She doesn't turn away; she leans into my hand. There are no cameras here to see it. "I'm just tired," I tell her. She nods sympathetically and sits back on the couch, drawing her knees up. A sigh escapes her lips as she observes the blank television screen intently.

It's almost time for the mandatory programming we were told about. My sources tell me it's some big hullabaloo over the star-crossed lovers' wedding. As if anyone in the districts actually cared about the resident celebrity couple. Oh, they care about Katniss all right, but only a fool would think she was in love with Peeta Mellark.

The two of them won the last Hunger Games. It's the first time in history that more than one person has. When they were the only two left, Katniss threatened double-suicide with some poisonous nightlock berries. Peeta did it because he couldn't imagine a life without her; Katniss claims the same. Personally, I think it was to save her conscience. I guess I can respect that. She didn't want to kill her partner, the one who survived through the Hunger Games with her. That forms a bond of trust and faith, certainly, and maybe even love, but as for the big question - whether or not they are _in _love - I'd have to answer no. That fear on Katniss's face I saw the day they visited District Four told me that lying to Peeta, to herself, to everyone; it is killing her. Because like so many victors before her, she mistakenly thought that the Hunger Games would be over when the train carried them away from the Capitol.

_She has no idea_, I think with a mixture of pity and bitterness. At least this wedlock with Peeta ensures one fortunate thing: Katniss Everdeen will never have to do what I do.

Ethelinde joins us, sitting on Annie's other side. Simultaneously, the television flickers to life. Caesar Flickerman is on the screen, with a crowd of Capitolites and the newly famous stylist for District Twelve known only as Cinna.

It's about Katniss's wedding dresses. The Capitol is voting on which one they like best. And all of Panem is watching as a testament to the legendary romance that is the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve.

Annie leans her head on my shoulder and falls asleep. I asked her once if this whole mockery of a marriage between Katniss and Peeta was salt in a wound for her like it is for me. She gave me a small, sad smile and said, "Their situation is the opposite of ours, but I don't think it makes it any less painful. We're two people who want to get married but can't; they're two people who don't want to get married but have to. Either way, no one is entirely happy with the result."

Sometimes I still wonder if Annie wishes it was her in those wedding dresses.

_Sooner than you think_, she said to me that night five years ago, with glowing certainty. I told her I'd marry her when we were able, but in all honesty I've never believed that we would actually get the chance. Ever since Haymitch's warning during the Victory Tour, I find myself doubting my previous doubt. _There's something brewing_, he'd said. _A storm_. It is obvious here in District Four. The atmosphere is increasingly aggressive. Only two weeks ago they had to ship in a fleet of new Peacekeepers to contain some of the random bouts of violence. But I don't think it's anything that's going to incite a rebellion.

I'm snapped out of my reverie by the words _Quarter Quell._

"What?" I exclaim, blinking at Caesar Flickerman on the screen. "What did he say?"

"He told us to stay tuned for another big event," Ethelinde responds tensely. "He said it's almost the seventy-fifth Hunger Games, time for the third Quarter Quell."

"Quarter Quell," I whisper to myself, trying the words on my tongue. I hadn't heard anything about this.

"Card," Mags chirps.

"Yes, they're probably going to read the card," Ethelinde agrees. With as much time as Mags spends over here, she's gotten nearly as good at deciphering her slurred speech as I have. "You might want to wake Annie up."

I do, and explain the situation. Her green eyes get round and she shrinks from the television as President Snow walks on stage. She reminds me of a frightened animal, her back digging into the couch cushions. I glare at Snow, hoping he can feel my venom through the transmission, knowing he can't.

A boy in a white suit follows the President on stage, a plain wooden box in his hands. He stations himself behind the President as he begins to speak. "Hello, citizens of Panem," he says with a serpentine smile. "Seventy-five years ago, this country was engulfed in the flames of war. The districts foolishly rebelled against their benefactor, and as a result one was abolished from existence: District Thirteen. Those were the Dark Days, and they are behind us now.

"As a reminder of the destruction disobedience causes, the President initiated the Hunger Games: every year the districts sacrifices one girl and one boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen to fight to the death in an arena. However, every twenty-five years, the anniversary is marked by the most prestigious of events, the Quarter Quell. A Hunger Games with a twist, the Quarter Quell is designed to keep fresh in the minds of the citizens those lives snatched away during the Dark Days.

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

I am certain that if I had been alive and eligible, before my transformation at the hands of my prep team, I would have participated in those Games.

"On the fiftieth anniversary," the President goes on, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

I think of a field stained with blood, littered with the bodies of forty-seven children, and Haymitch in the center of it all.

"And now we honor the third Quarter Quell," the President says. The boy in the white suit steps forward, opening the lid of the box. Inside are all the pre-planned twists for the Quells, rows and rows of them. The President picks up a single envelope marked 75 and slits it open, licking his lips as he reads the decree. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

The words crash like waves in my head. _Existing pool of victors...existing pool of victors...existing pool of victors_...

And then, like coming up to the surface for air, I realize what it means.

Me. I'm in the reaping.

And Annie. And Mags. They are too.

Annie starts hyperventilating beside me, stifling rough, dry sobs with her hand. Suddenly her face becomes an alarming shade of green and she darts off the couch, but she doesn't make it to the bathroom in time. I can hear her retching in the hallway, I can hear the splash as the vomit hits the clean wood floor and the thump as Annie sinks to her knees. Ethelinde hobbles over to her daughter, rubbing soothing circles along her back, but she's unresponsive as she rocks back and forth. It's no use. This announcement is too much; it's broken Annie momentarily. It might break her forever, who knows? But right now she's gone, and there's nothing anyone, not even me, can do to bring her back.

I can't look at Mags. I can't. Because I'm reviewing the numbers in my head right now, and I know one thing for a fact: there are only two female victors, and both of them are in this house. I know that if I look at her we will share a silent message, one that says, _We can't let Annie go back_, and I don't want to deliver or receive that message.

So I focus on the television screen instead, but there's a close up of President Snow. I turn my attention to mosaic on the wall, tracing the pattern a million times before I realize it's a sea turtle. I try to figure out my own odds, but I know it's useless. I'm going whether I'm chosen from the pool of four or not. I'm going because Mags is going, and I'll be damned if I let her die alone in a Hunger Games arena.

A large bang comes from outside, and shouts and screaming. I shoot out of my seat and rush to the window, but all I can see is a hazy blaze where the town is. There are more shots, a sound quicker and deadlier than thunder. District Four is rioting.

I turn around, and Mags is standing there. I look right into her lily-pad green eyes, those honest eyes that have always been so wise and so kind. Message sent. Message received.

She steps aside and I make my way over to Annie, but she's already standing up. Ethelinde has gone into the kitchen for a mop. Annie's eyes are wide and horrified but dry as she gazes back at me, her hands covering her ears. "Make the cannons stop," she mouths.

I put my arms around her and bury my face in her hair. Then I do a thing that I haven't done in nearly ten years.

I cry.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm back! <strong>

**And so we begin with the trials of the Quarter Quell. As usual I will be updating every Friday from now on. Sorry if this chapter is a little bit jumbled; it's a lot of condensed information. The pace of the story will become moderate as it progresses.**

**Reviews make me happy. :)**


	41. CF: District Four: The Reaping

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **F**our - **T**he **R**eaping

* * *

><p>The next weeks are spent preparing. I train every day, vigorously, relentlessly, because it is a blissful form of violent escape that comes with a rush of endorphins and the feeling of accomplishment. If only I could swim away from this place. If only the situation would perish at the lethal end of my trident.<p>

Annie watches with wide, silent eyes. She doesn't train because she knows that even if she was reaped she would not survive long. I told her that I was going in no matter what. I know that if she were to become a tribute for the second time, she would kill herself the first day in the arena if only for me. She wouldn't formulate the same plan when it failed so horribly with Quincy. However, she doesn't understand that she is all I have to live for.

Mags doesn't train either. I don't think she would be capable of it even if she wanted to. At over eighty, with her speech and motor function deteriorated by strokes, Mags doesn't stand a chance. She seems perfectly resigned to this fact; capable, even, of embracing it, but a world without Mags scares me more than she could ever know.

The nightmares are vivid and cruel, more so than ever before. It seems like no one sleeps in Victor's Village anymore. A different girl leaves from Nath's house every night. Ore is constantly over at Mags's, staring blankly at the sea while she bathes in the glow of the moon. The lights in Haro's house are always beaming through my bedroom window, which would annoy me if I were ever laying there. But every night I'm with Annie. I've practically moved into her house now. I don't think I stepped into my own house more than five times in two weeks.

Laying in bed with her is both paradise and my own personal form of torture. The imminent fact that I might never see her ever again in only a few weeks is crushing, suffocating, and incites a strong desire to hold her in my arms and never let go.

One night she says, "Finnick, I don't want to wait."

I know what she means immediately, because I've been mulling over the same thing. I might never see her again; we might never get the chance to get married. But I eventually decided upon the same verdict: with Annie, I want to do it right. Even if we don't get to do it at all. I've done it wrong too many times.

"I'm sorry, Annie. I can't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't. I just...I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to do it unless I know for a fact that I will never touch another woman other than you again."

Annie doesn't argue, if only because she doesn't want to raise the question of my return. I'm supremely grateful for this, because I know how selfish I'm being.

The day of the reaping is sticky and humid, one of the hottest days in the year. I don't think anybody slept. We decided to quit after Annie woke up screaming twice, and I another time. We found other ways to occupy ourselves until sunrise.

Ethelinde cooks us a big breakfast, but we hardly eat any of it. "I'm going to have so many leftovers," she sighs, and it makes me laugh so hard that my eyes water up and I think I might die from lack of oxygen. What I wouldn't have given for leftovers ten years ago. What I won't give for leftovers only a few days from now. It takes Mags slapping the back of my head to get my hysterical laughter to stop.

We dress nicely for the reaping, Annie and Mags in new blue dresses they bought, I in a simple suit. I have to help Annie button her dress. Her hands are shaking too bad. When she looks up at me with eyes that seem like they might shatter, I take her hand. It still doesn't stop shaking.

I never thought that anything would be as bad as my first reaping. I was so, so wrong. As we march to the Justice Building, my stomach feels like it might split in half. I die a little bit inside when I have to let go of Annie's hand. Mags guides her away gently, like a shepherd herding a lost sheep.

Nath, Haro, and Ore are waiting for me in our little sectioned-off area. Ore fidgets with his jacket nervously, his hands shaking as bad as Annie's; Haro strokes his formidable beard, but he is sweating profusely; Nath is severely hungover. He sneers at me when I walk by. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I wish I could punch him. Again.

Mayor Grubstein, who is actually the son of the previous retired mayor, gives the usual speech about the Dark Days in his booming voice. Honestly I probably have it memorized at this point. We all probably do.

Ophelia comes on stage. Instead of the flowing magenta braids, she has short lime green hair and skin that looks like it's covered in diamonds. She was supposed to retire last year, but she begged to host the Quarter Quell and I guess whoever appoints the Capitol representatives agreed. Either way, I have to squint to look at her in the sunlight.

"Ladies first!" she titters, hobbling over to the girls' pool. I think I'm going to be sick when I watch her fiddle around with the two slips of paper in that glass ball. Slips of paper to her, two people I love most in the world to me.

"Annie Cresta!"

Annie stifles a shriek just after it erupts from her mouth. Mags nudges her toward the stage, but she can barely walk she's hyperventilating so badly. Her hands are fluttering around her head, deciding whether they want to shield her ears or cover her mouth. The blood is ringing in my head. I know that Annie won't be going into the arena, but hearing her name called tears me apart.

After Annie's calmed down enough for Ophelia to speak again, she says, "Gentlemen next!" and sashays over to that other glass ball. She fumbles for a slip. She opens it. Reads it aloud.

"Finnick Odair!"

Hearing my name rekindles all those violent first emotions of being chosen, but luckily I've gotten better at containing them. I was prepared to volunteer anyway; however, I realize now I would not have had a choice. These many nights I played every scenario in my mind, and the worst case happened without any provocation.

Mags volunteers for Annie when the time comes. Peacekeepers have to escort Annie off stage. She's suppressing tremendous sobs, but she can't stop her shoulders from shaking and she can't keep the tears from spilling like two tiny waterfalls from her eyes. I wish that Annie wouldn't cry. I wipe a single tear from Mags's cheek.

The Peacekeepers lead us off stage, and I turn to go to the Justice Building for the customary goodbyes. One Peacekeeper stops me, grasping my shoulder firmly. He's one of the new shipment, with cold black eyes and equally dark hair. He has bad sunburn on his face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Odair, but there is no visiting hour this time. We were ordered to escort you straight to the train station."

I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. My voice is the tiniest I've ever heard it, reminding me of when I was only eight or nine. "What?"

"No visitors this time." The Peacekeeper grabs me and steers me toward the train station. I follow, numbly, limply, knowing with helpless regret that there is nothing I can do when surrounded by five armed men. I think agonizingly about my first journey to the Capitol after Annie's Hunger Games, how she asked me for a kiss before I left. I knew I didn't deserve her affection then, and I still don't. However, I've kissed her every time since then before I leave. It's a promise, always a promise that I'll return to her warm, sun-kissed arms.

And now I don't get to make that promise.

I wonder what is going through her mind as Mags leads me onto the train like a mother with her child, even holding my hand as we climb aboard. Is she betrayed? Angry? Numb? Sad? Heartbroken like me? Or is she so distraught over this forsaken Quarter Quell that she hasn't even noticed?

Urgently, Mags gets my attention and points out the window. I squint at the direction her gnarled finger indicates. My heart leaps up to my throat. Annie. Annie is running, sprinting as fast as she can across the platform. I can see my name on her lips.

And then I'm sprinting, leaping over every obstacle in my way, until I get to the open caboose of the train. I hear the shrill whistle just as I reach over the barred railing and she throws her arms around me. I get a face full of brown hair that smells like sunshine, and she turns her face up to me just as the Peacekeepers are grabbing her and trying to tear us apart. Mags screams at me because the train is beginning to move. My neck feels like it might break, but I don't care because I know that Annie isn't letting go until I kiss her.

I do, full on the mouth, not caring who sees because if I come back a second time I swear to whatever kind of twisted deity who created this place that I am going to marry this woman, this crazy woman who is the sanest person I have ever met. I'm going to show the whole world that I love her because if I come back a second time, then we both deserve it.

The kiss lasts for about two seconds, then the Peacekeepers pry Annie away from me and the train really starts shooting down the tracks. The wind picks up and howls in my ears, but somehow I can still hear Annie's declaration of love as she and the seven Peacekeepers who have her in custody shrink into tiny dots. I wonder if she can hear mine.

I go back inside the train, which is silent and still in comparison to the torrent of sounds and emotions outside. Mags leans casually in front of the exit to the caboose, moving out of my way as I come in. There are three Peacekeepers glaring at me with simmering disapproval, one of whom is sprawled on the ground. Nath inconspicuously draws his foot back, and for a moment I feel a rare surge of gratitude. Ore narrows his eyes at the other two, daring them to move. He is a gentle giant, Ore, but a giant nonetheless.

The Peacekeeper picks himself up and storms out of the room with his underlings, muttering something under his breath. After they leave there is a palpable deflation of tension, like the air being let out of a balloon. Nath shakes his head, smirking.

"You're nuts," he accuses me with a jab of his finger. I think he's forgotten that we're enemies, but I welcome the somewhat cynical cordiality with open arms. We're grown-ups now; it's time to put our animosity aside to face the bigger issues in life.

So I grin back at him, subtly accepting his truce.

"Aren't we all?"

* * *

><p><strong>And so, it begins.<strong>

**I've had this scene in my head for the longest time; I even had a one-shot written and was ready to publish it, but then I decided that it would fit well in this story. It's the little scenes like this that motivate me to get through the harder parts to write, and keep the story going. **

**Thoughts? If so, type them in the new little white box below. Try it out. You know you want to...**


	42. CF: The Train: Mags

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **T**rain - **M**ags's **S**tory

* * *

><p>That night is probably the most relaxed dinner I've ever had on a train. It might be because we're all trying desperately to avoid the daunting horror that, yes, in only a few days we are going back into the arena and that, yes, this time it is different because we know these people, they are not complete strangers. Once during dinner I glance at Mags and have a horrible thought: if I'm going to be the one who wins, then she is the enemy. But I can't think it without feeling sick to my stomach. After everything she's done for me, Mags will never be the enemy.<p>

Ophelia embraces Mags and me, whom she's worked with for years. "I'm so sad that this is my last year, but I'm glad I got to host this event!" she squeals. I wonder if she's being deliberately inconsiderate or if she's really as incredibly vapid as she looks, until I see her blot tears out of her eyes and I realize that, while we're probably suffering a lot more than she is, she is still suffering with us.

I wonder if Ophelia's reaction to this is any indication of how the rest of the Capitol is taking this announcement. After all, the victors are as good as celebrities in their eyes. They've gotten to know us; they actually see us as people instead of pawns in their bloodthirsty Games. Even they must be a little uneasy. I suppose they won't really care once we're all dumped into an arena, but still. This isn't exactly going to raise President Snow's popularity.

After dinner we watch the reapings. It sobers us, watching people we know walk up on that stage. It's not like we don't do it every year back home, but this time it's strangely eerie. Perhaps it's because as victors we never thought that we would ever be vulnerable in this way again.

Most of the faces are familiar. The famous siblings, Cashmere and Gloss, are both reaped; I remember Annie's Hunger Games and wince. They've never forgiven me for the trick they thought I played, no matter how many times I've told them I had no idea the dam would break and sweep Opal and Annie along with it.

Leo and Enobaria are also reaped, but Brutus volunteers to take Leo's place. I can't imagine why; then again, Brutus reminds me of Jayce and I think that maybe they have the same soldier mentality. As for Enobaria, her historic victory and the gruesome surgery to commemorate it never really sat right with me.

Wiress and Beetee are welcome faces. I like them a lot, enough to form an alliance with them. However, I know they will also be formidable opponents, partially because of their intelligence and because I'll have to keep reminding myself that they are indeed dangerous.

I can't say I know the tributes from Five very well, simply because they were wasted away by drugs well before my Games. As for the tributes from Six, well, I've always tried to avoid them. I'm always afraid that the boy will come up, the defenseless boy that I killed in cold blood, the boy whose name I have burned from my memory in the hopes of keeping the horrible choking guilt at bay, knowing that it only makes it worse.

Blight and, inevitably, Johanna. I didn't even consider the fact that Johanna was the only female victor from her district. I'm not sure what feels worse: knowing that I will see her in the arena or that I was so focused on Annie, Mags, and myself to even spare a thought for her fate. But she is as immovable and strong on that stage as ever, so different from the sniveling girl she pretended to be nine years ago. There's no pretending anymore.

Ophelia burst into tears when Cecelia has to pry her children from her skirt. Mags, who is a good friend of Woof's, puts her head in her hands.

Leah and Garrick from Nine. Inize and Nel from Ten. Chaff, who is missing a hand, and Seeder from Eleven. Katniss Everdeen, of course, from District Twelve; Haymitch is also reaped, but Peeta Mellark volunteers. I suppose he's going to try to protect Katniss in these Games just like he did last year. I wonder if she's going to do the same, but her face is unreadable on the screen.

After the reapings, everyone dissipates. Nath raids the alcohol. Ore goes to bed. Ophelia does the same. Mags and I walk down the hallway look at each other, and walk into our separate rooms, knowing we will more likely than not see each other later that night.

* * *

><p>When I wake up screaming from the nightmares, the ones of Enobaria turning into a shark and ripping Johanna to shreds, of Chaff cutting off my hand to replace his own missing one, of Cashmere and Gloss holding Annie underwater until she drowns, I quite literally fall out of bed and go looking for Mags.<p>

I know exactly where she is. And I find her there, staring out the window at the moon. It's just a sliver in the sky, barely illuminating the interior of the compartment. It strikes me how even in this dim light I can tell how aged Mags has become this past decade. I want to cry again, suddenly, just because Mags has grown old when she deserves to stay young and whole forever.

She's not surprised to see me. "Wondering when find me," she garbles with a toothless smile. I smile back and gently take her hand.

"I figured I might as well _try_ and get some sleep first."

Mags shakes her head, turning her gaze back up to the sky. "I don't try anymore."

I follow her eyes up to that crescent glowing in the black velvet canvas of night. "Annie told me this story once," I find myself saying, "when I woke up from some really bad nightmares. That's what we do when it happens; we tell stories to each other." I don't know why I'm telling Mags this, but it seems important that I do. She doesn't question it. She just listens.

"Anyway, the story was about these two lovers. The woman was so beautiful and the man so radiant, and they were both so in love that they caught the attention of a hag who became jealous and cursed the couple. The man was banished to the sun and the woman to the moon. Their grief was so terrible because they could never see each other again that, before the man went to sleep and when he got up, he painted the sky with all the colors of the rainbow for the woman to see, and the colors were so beautiful that the woman cried into the ocean. The hag, seeing the immense love these two had for each other, felt guilty and sewed diamonds into the sky for the woman on the moon and gave the man on the sun a pipe to smoke. But even these things could not cure their grief, so while the woman admired the twinkling diamonds and the man smoked his pipe, he still painted the sky and she still cried. The hag could do nothing about the spell, but she made it so that the couple could meet during every eclipse."

I stop and look at the moon, smiling down at us. "And they do. Every eclipse."

"That's an awful story," Mags says blankly. That's the first complete sentence I've heard her say in quite a while. I don't have to look at her to know that tears are dripping down her cheeks, but I do anyway. I wrap by arms around her and hold her to my chest. She's so fragile and delicate.

"The woman in the story. Annie told me that her name was Candra."

Mags nods.

"And the hag? Her name was Magra."

"Candra was moon," Mags sniffs. Her hand is clutched around something at her breast. I realize that it's her sister's locket. "I was always hag." She bursts into more tears. "Being moon not always good."

Being the moon isn't always a good thing. I should know that better than anybody. I remember Mags telling me that she and Candra lived in the orphanage, and that Candra drowned. I wonder if Candra, growing up in such a place, being beautiful, ever went through some of the things that I do. To protect her sister, perhaps?

I wonder if Mags went through them too, despite Candra's sacrifice.

I hold her until she stops crying. Then she wiggles out of my embrace and opens the locket. She takes out a piece of paper and hands it to me. I unwrap it, read it, and laugh. "I wrote this after I got mad at you," I whisper. "Before I went into the arena. I thought you were supporting Muriel over me." The words seem horribly inadequate now. So terribly childish.

Mags lays a hand over my heart. "You."

"Thank you, Mags," I say. I smile and take the familiar locket in my fingers, placing the note back inside. I kiss the top of her head. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

She rolls her eyes and mumbles something intelligible. It takes me a moment to realize that she is actually falling asleep standing up. I catch her and carry her to bed, tucking her under the covers like a child, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Checking her pulse just in case, because Annie's paranoia has rubbed off on me a little over the years. I notice that she is still clutching the locket, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps Mags doesn't mind growing old after all.

"Sweet dreams, Mags," I whisper, and I mean it. After over twenty years of insomnia, the one thing that Mags deserves more than anything else is a good night's sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Short chapter. There's nothing in the actual books to support this depiction of Mags's youth; it is all pure speculation and interpretation on my part. But I thought learning a little more about Mags would be nice, even if it's awful. <strong>


	43. CF: The Capitol: The Opening Ceremonies

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **O**pening **C**eremonies

* * *

><p>We arrive at the Capitol shortly after dawn. I don't get a wink of sleep, and it shows. I can only think about how the opening ceremonies are today. I hope I don't fall asleep on stage.<p>

Nath is hung over, but that's not any different than usual. Ore doesn't need to take any initiative. Mags and I have mentored plenty of times; we know what to do. Ophelia is the only one inclined to remind us that after breakfast we need to see our prep teams and stylists.

Laverna is my stylist this year. This is only her second year as a stylist, but I recall that she was on Annie's prep team five years ago. She hasn't changed any: her translucent blue skin and shimmering white hair give her the appearance of being made of water. It's quite pleasant, actually, one of the nicer extreme cosmetic surgeries I've seen. Agrippa, Junius, and Marcus make up my prep team. They don't do much in the way of theatrics; they're actually fairly focused and calm as they polish me up, which is a welcome reprieve.

"All done," Agrippa says with her thick accent. She reminds me of a giant grape: large, round, and purple. She doesn't fret over me like most women do. I noticed a while ago that she has a wedding ring on her finger. Not that wedding rings usually mean anything where I'm concerned. I've slept with plenty of married women.

"Madame Laverna will be with you momentarily," Marcus adds. He is a young man around my age who would be almost normal if his curly cap of hair weren't so vibrantly yellow and his eyes not so profusely green.

_They must have an enormous amount of respect for this woman_, I think to myself as Junius closes the door behind them, _to actually call her Madame Laverna_. I might die of laughter if I had to address someone as Madame.

Laverna strides in, all business. This entire prep team has been strangely cold and distant. I wonder if Laverna simply likes her subordinates this way, since she is so obviously the same. I can't help but compare her to another blossoming stylist I once knew, a girl with caramel eyes. The first girl I ever kissed.

Then I remember where Aurora ended up, and I push the thoughts from my mind.

She says barely two words to me as she perfects the minute details that my prep team has neglected. A snip of the hair here, a file of the nail there. "These bags under your eyes are going to be hard to hide if you keep rubbing them," she snaps at me. I stop immediately. Perhaps her prep team isn't devoted out of respect as much as fear. Laverna is harsh.

"Now," she says as she reveals my outfit, "don't freak out when you see it. We want to show as much skin as possible, since you _are _Finnick Odair, but I think that being flat-out naked is tacky." Draped across her arms is a fishing net. My outfit.

"You're kidding," I say flatly.

"I wish I was," Laverna shoots back. "Trust me, if it was anyone else I wouldn't dare risk it. But it's you. It will work."

A disturbing thought suddenly hits me. "Mags doesn't have to wear this, does she?"

"Of course not!" Laverna seems disgusted by the idea. "We have a much more suitable, age-appropriate outfit for her. Didn't I just say if it was anyone else but you I wouldn't risk it?"

She dresses me deftly, without further chit-chat. I'm basically naked but for the knots around my groin area. "Believe it or not, nudity is frowned upon in the Hunger Games," Laverna remarks, which I do find hard to believe considering the absurd amount of nude tributes I've seen. I recall District One covered in body glitter one year, and District Twelve covered in coal dust the year after.

There is only once in which I see Laverna soften as she is straightening out my outfit. "How is Annie?" she asks, looking up at me with startling blue eyes. I'm mildly surprised that she remembers a tribute she prepped five years ago; but then again, Annie is pretty unforgettable.

"She's doing better, probably, than the last time you saw her. Although she isn't taking the Quarter Quell very well. I don't know - " I cut myself off there. I'm sharing too much.

But Laverna doesn't seem treacherous. She nods. "Out of all the tributes I've ever done up, I liked her the best. She was so nice. Very pretty too. It's a shame what happened to her. She had amazing potential."

_She still does_, I think. _She's clinically insane, not dead_. But I don't say anything, because Laverna means well. I think she's being sincere. After she finishes with my outfit she tells me to go entertain myself somewhere. I go down to the Remake Center, where I'm sure to find company.

There are only a few victors chatting in small groups. Enobaria, Brutus, Cashmere, and Gloss are all talking in a collected manner; they certainly wasted no time forming a little Career pack. Wiress and Beetee are in a corner, standing beside each other but not talking. Seeder and Cecelia, and a few others that I can't distinguish from here are gathered in a big group near the center.

It seems strange, somehow, how casually they gather together. But it's also a tad immature. It reminds me of the cliques in school, the cliques that I was never included in.

Then I notice another isolated someone, stroking the neck of the horse to her chariot. I almost don't recognize her, what with all the dramatic makeup on her face. Her eyebrows are arched, her cheekbones sharp and defined, her lips a theatrical violet hue. Her outfit is bland by contrast, but still very different than those innocent pastels she sports for the cameras. A simple black suit and a half-crown of black metal - a crown, if I remember correctly, she split with Peeta Mellark.

Katniss Everdeen.

Immediately, I'm intrigued. I've never met Katniss, but if Haymitch is right then she is the key to the rebellion that seems to be happening. As I'm standing across the room staring at her, I think the same thing I thought when I caught a glimpse of her outside the window in District Four: she doesn't look like much. She looks like a lonely girl caked in makeup.

Which, I have to remind myself, is exactly what she is.

But there has to be more to her story, more than she's telling. She has to be something special to give someone as pessimistic and cynical as Haymitch Abernathy hope.

_So, let's just see what our tragic heroine is made of_.

I stride over there, pulling on my bedroom mask. I grab some sugar cubes that an Avox is feeding to some of the horses along the way. Katniss turns to face me just as I come to a stop right in front of her. I lean against her horse and stoop down so our faces are close, popping a sugar cube into my mouth. It dissolves on my tongue, sweet and powdery.

We take a moment to assess each other. Katniss's eyes are the cloudy gray of a thunderstorm, but as hard and impenetrable as steel. She's pretty in a cold sort of way, with her thick dark hair and angular face that says, _I'm tolerating your presence now, but I could do just fine without you._ I wonder if she gives Peeta Mellark this look, and if it kills him inside. I know it would kill me if Annie looked at me this way.

"Hello, Katniss," I greet cordially.

"Hello, Finnick," she replies in an attempt to be casual. She does remarkably well, keeping her voice steady and light, but I can't help notice how as soon as I spoke she backed away almost imperceptibly. My presence makes her uncomfortable.

I offer her my hand, which is piled high with little white boxes. "What a sugar cube? They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I...well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."

Katniss quirks an eyebrow, as though she cannot believe that I actually said something so flirtatious to her. "No thanks," she says, giving me a once-over. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime though."

I have to resist the urge to laugh, because it's a pretty witty comeback. Perhaps Katniss isn't as stone cold as she seems.

"You're absolutely terrifying me in that get up," I remark. "What happened to all the pretty little-girl dresses?"

"I outgrew them," she says simply, turning back to the horse. For some reason, this comment makes me sad. Katniss is what, sixteen? Seventeen? She shouldn't have to exchange dresses for suits of stylish armor.

I take the high collar of her outfit and run it between my fingers. There's more than just fabric here; some kind of electrical wiring. This isn't the simple black suit it appears to be. "It's too bad about this Quell thing," I sigh. And it is, because 'this Quell thing' is most likely her fault. The twist is just too perfect, to advantageous for the President considering the circumstances. Ever since the announcement I've found myself wondering if the card for the seventy-fifth would be the same if Katniss hadn't thought of the nightlock double-suicide. "You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."

"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on anyway, Finnick?"

The question takes me a bit off guard. I spend my money on typical things: food, clothing, occasionally something for Annie or Mags. I bought a boat with my money once. But of course, I can't say that to Katniss Everdeen. She's expecting a much different answer.

"Oh, I haven't dealt with anything as common as money for years," I answer instead.

"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"

Another unexpected, blunt question. Blunt like the receiving end of a club. This time, I'm telling her the truth before I even realize it. "With secrets," I whisper, almost to myself. Then I snap back into attention, angry at myself. Why is Katniss Everdeen interrogating _me_? And why am I answering her? It should be the other way around. I came over here, I'm asking the questions.

I lean forward until I can feel her breath on my face, until our lips are almost brushing. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"

Momentarily Katniss looks appalled and a crimson blush blossoms across her cheeks. But she quickly rearranges her features into a scowl. "No, I'm an open book. Everybody seems to know my secrets before I even know them myself."

"Unfortunately, I think that's true." I wonder if she knows that she is the figurehead of this rebellion. I wonder if she knows that Haymitch is planning to take advantage of her fame. I wonder if she knows that Peeta actually seems to love her, and that she makes it too obvious she does not love him back.

Peeta, who is heading this way looking very irritated.

I wrap it up before I get punched in the face or something. Who knows what these District Twelve people are like with their women? Johanna is often telling me the brawls that occur in her district because of one love triangle or another. I don't want to get caught up in one.

"Peeta is coming." She doesn't look away. Maybe she thinks I'm going to molest her if she does. I highly doubt that she is captivated by my eyes. For some reason, flirting with Katniss feels a little like flirting with a girl too young to understand what I'm talking about. Although she's aloof, there is something naive about her. And I hate it, because I don't want her to be vulnerable. I want her to be a cold-blooded stone so I don't have to feel bad about resenting her for her marriage, or killing her in order to get back home.

I want to cut her. Deep. I want to make her hate me so I can have an excuse to hate her. "Sorry you have to cancel your wedding," I say with a smile, backing away. "I know how devastating that must be for you." I eat another sugar cube to keep from saying anything else, to keep the bitter sarcasm out of my voice.

As I leave, Peeta comes by her side. "What did Finnick Odair want?"

I don't hear her explanation. When I look back at them, Peeta is smiling down at her. Then the music blares from the speakers, and it's time to get onto the chariots. I don't want to hate Katniss anymore. Suddenly I am just very, very tired.

Mags is in the chariot already. Her outfit is also fish net, but there are so many layers that you can't see any of her skin except her arms and ankles. Her hair is done up in a simple bun. She touches my arm when I get into the chariot, looks at me with concern. I give her a smile and offer her the last of my sugar cubes.

"Might as well," she snorts, and pops it into her mouth.

* * *

><p>The carriage ride back to our quarters is heavy. Heavy and silent.<p>

Opening ceremonies belong to the young and healthy. The old, the wasted, they do not belong in scandalous costumes, in the flashing of cameras and hours of standing on stage. These ceremonies were disgusting. This whole Quarter Quell is a despicable, just an empty shell, a hollow echo of the Hunger Games before it. It's worse, so much worse, than any other method of annihilation President Snow has managed to concoct. No poison, no mutilation, could ever top this undignified mockery.

Yet, some bitter part of me is pleased with the results of the opening ceremonies. This Quell, meant to dispose of the head of the rebellion, may just completely backfire on the President. The ones who looked the most radiant tonight were the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve; their suits were not just plain black fabric, but a glowing, shifting furnace of smoldering coal and hatred; their half-crowns were an outrage against the false promises made to them, a reminder of the blossoming love they are now so cruelly denied; they did not smile, they did not wave, they were unforgiving and vengeful embers hurled from their flickering, hopeful fire. Everyone was mesmerized. Even the President himself seemed unsettled.

The carriage stops abruptly. I hop out and assist Mags, and together we walk toward our rooms. I can hear Haymitch lumbering our way before I see him, a gargantuan drunken mass of flesh and rumpled clothing. I brace myself before he nearly collapses on top of me, laughing hysterically. "Look at that!" he chortles, tugging at my outfit. "Looks like I caught a Finnick! Hey, it's a Finn-fish!"

"Go dunk your head in some ice, Haymitch," I sneer, shoving him off me. Despite my temporary pact with Nath, I still have no tolerance for drunkards. He makes a show of stumbling backward and just manages to catch himself on the side of a carriage, tipping it haphazardly. I catch a quick gleam in his eyes, like the sharp flash of a blade. Eyes that are not fogged with alcohol. Haymitch is as sober as I am.

I roll my eyes exasperatedly as his knees "give out" and he falls to the ground. I turn to Mags and instruct her to go on to her room, assuring her I'll be there after I scrape this blob out of the mud. She nods her head and hobbles away.

"Come on, you," I groan, hauling him off of the ground. Haymitch makes no move to help me, staying limp and intoxicated as I drag him to his room.

"I think I'm going to be sick," moans Haymitch. I guide him to the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts behind us, he perks up and brushes himself off. "Sorry about that, Finnick, but you know how it is. Don't worry, already got this room swept for bugs. We can talk safely here."

"What the hell do you want?" I ask, sparing no time on pleasantries. "This hasn't got to do with Katniss again, does it? I already told you I'm not joining this silly rebellion, it's not going to work. You're only going to make a bad situation worse. Look what her actions have already gotten us into." I gesture wildly around us, my fierce whisper growing steadily louder. "Because of her, because of _you_, I may never see Annie again. Mags - "

"Stop." The order is so authoritative that I have to. I was choking off the words anyway, because I don't think I can dare say them aloud. Haymitch looks at me with a mixture of firmness and pity. "Look, don't think I don't understand. I do. This whole thing just sucks. And I know you already made up your mind about the rebellion but - listen to me, okay? It's different this time. It's not just an idea, not just some faint hope of contacting District Thirteen. It's done. We've found them."

I'm shocked into silence. District Thirteen? Haymitch had said they were trying to see if there were any survivors, but I'd just scoffed. No one survived the nuclear bombing of District Thirteen. That fact has been drilled into my head since I was born. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you everything," says Haymitch apologetically. "No one knows everything, except maybe the leaders of Thirteen. But I can tell you that these Games aren't what you think and they aren't what the President thinks either. It's rigged."

"Rigged? As in the victor is already decided?" A huge guess on who that is.

"No. But we have a plan. A plan that is going to get as many people as we can out alive." Haymitch sighs, rubs his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, I've got to be vague. All I can tell you is that you need to befriend Katniss. She is the key to making all of this happen. I know it may be...difficult, but you have to try. In the arena, keep her alive at all costs."

I give him a look. "Haymitch, do you really think I'm _that _stupid?"

"You've got to believe me, Finnick." This is the closest to pleading I've ever heard Haymitch come to. "It's everything we've been hoping for. Think of your district. Think of all the possibilities if we get this right."

"Sooner than you think," I murmur. Haymitch doesn't say anything. He knows I'm considering everything he's said. I glance up at him, waiting impatiently for my verdict. For the first time I force myself realize that there is one thing I've never seen Haymitch do before, and it is hope. I sigh, knowing exactly what Annie would say if she were here. "Fine. I'll go along with it."

Haymitch exhales. Did he really think I wouldn't say yes? "Thank you. For now, just try and gain some of Katniss's trust. Peeta's too. He is just as important; she is dead set on making him the victor of these Games. She won't do anything without him. If he goes, she will too. And don't tell her anything. She knows nothing about this, and in order for this to work it needs to stay that way."

"What?" I'm genuinely shocked.

"Let's just say that when it comes to Katniss, ignorance is bliss," Haymitch grumbles.

"Who else is in on this?"

"You can trust Beetee, Johanna, Blight, Vivienne, and Corrick for now - "

"Vivienne? Corrick?"

Haymitch raises his eyebrows. "District Six."

That explains why I don't know their names. I blink, see the barrel of a gun, see the ordinary eyes of a boy as I spear him with my trident. "Oh. What about Mags?"

"If you trust her," Haymitch shrugs. "Seeder and Chaff know about it too, but Chaff didn't want in. He promised not to tell anyone. Go to him as a last resort if you need anything."

"Got it."

"Tell only Mags if you have to, though," Haymitch adds. "And do it safely. I swear, if this gets out and it's your fault, you'll have bigger problems than the Capitol to worry about."

I know it's not an empty threat. "Relax, Haymitch. I won't let you down. If you're really going to give this a shot, I'm in."

"Glad to hear it." Haymitch flushes the toilet and turns on the shower water. He strips until he's in his underwear and flops into the shower with a thunderous thud. "Now, we've got to make this convincing."

"Don't worry," I say wryly. "I've got a lot of practice."

Haymitch smirks and shakes his head, spraying water everywhere. I'm not sure if he thinks I'm talking about my steamy wet escapades during my visits to the Capitol, or if he deciphered my true meaning: forcing my drunk father to get a cold shower. Probably the first.

I haul him out of the shower after a while and open the bathroom door, dragging him across the room - he's pretending to be unconscious at this point - and dumping him, soaking wet, onto the bed. "Don't even got the decen'y to dry me off," he grumbles.

"Sweet dreams, Haymitch," I say saracastically, before walking out into the hallway and shutting the door behind me.

* * *

><p><strong>A long, detailed chapter! Yay...!<strong>

**And so, the rebellion is setting in motion. I made it so that Finnick doesn't know anything about it until now, just because I think it's unrealistic that the victors could communicate with each other beforehand. He's going to be pretty much as oblivious as Katniss at this point, but he'll slowly learn more information as the Games progress.**


	44. CF: The Capitol: Training

**PART TWO: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **T**raining

* * *

><p>I let myself sleep in the next morning. I don't have to worry about training, thanks to Haymitch. The main objective of training this time is to find a niche and settle into it, but today all I have to do is try to befriend Katniss. Easy. I charm my way into women's hearts all the time.<p>

It's eleven o'clock, an hour after training is supposed to start, before I even get out of bed. Mags is already waiting for me at the breakfast table, along with Ophelia and Ore. Only Ophelia seems distraught at my timing.

"There you are!" she snaps. "Didn't you hear me knock on your door this morning? It's an hour after training!"

"No, I didn't," I say, honestly shocked. "I was really tired. My apologies, Ophelia. After I eat breakfast Mags and I will head down there."

"Is training even important this time?" Ore inquires quietly, tapping the spokes of his fork against his chin. "I mean, everyone already knows what you can do, and you already know what everyone else can do. It's not like anyone's going to try anything new. What's the point?"

"Alliances," I say. "Today we will see what the teams are going to be and who the loners are and act accordingly. I imagine that the Careers will be the usual One and Two, but everyone else is a mystery. Usually if there are alliances it's among district partners, but this time it is different."

"No Career," says Mags sternly.

I nod my head in agreement. "No, I'm not joining the Careers. I'm sticking with you."

We head down to the training center about half an hour later, and it's no surprise that only half the tributes are here. But I do see Katniss and Peeta among the meager crowd. I'm about to go over to them when Johanna intercepts me, smirking. "Long time no see, stranger."

"Fancy seeing you here, Jo," I remark. "Where's Blight?"

"Too good to come. And why would I miss out on seeing your pretty face, hm?" She pinches my cheek with more force than necessary, a ruthless smile on her lips. "How about we do a little wrestling? The station's open."

"No thanks," I decline. "Mags and I - hey, where did she go?"

"Looks like she's got herself covered," Johanna laughs, pointing over to the plants station. Mags is listening attentively to the instructor, bobbing her wrinkled little head. "I knew I liked her for a reason."

"Hard not to," I say.

Johanna shrugs and turns away after I refuse her second offer to wrestle. I look for Katniss among the stations and spot her in the knot-tying one, struggling over a complicated sailor's knot. Plastering on my most disarming smile, I saunter over to her and wrap my arms around her shoulders, completing the knot for her. She does not seem very pleased to have her lesson interrupted, but she watches silently as I take a length of rope, make a noose, and pretend to hang myself. I even stick my tongue out in the customary play-dead fashion. Katniss only rolls her eyes without amusement and stands up, heading over to the vacant fire-starting station.

There's no reason for me to remain in a station where I'm probably more knowledgable than the instructor, so I head over to the archery station in the hopes of attracting Katniss with my mediocre shooting. Perhaps she is the kind of person who likes to have the advantage, who likes to approach rather than be approached.

But after an hour of target practice, my only companion is Mags. I glance over at the shelter station where Katniss has relocated with Wiress and Beetee. I'm surprisingly offended. Some part of me that has grown conceited over years of being fawned over cannot believe that she would rather consort with the quirky victors from District Three than with me.

"Distracted," Mags accuses as my arrow flies away from the target, arching over the stationary circle and landing near the rack of spears. She is taking a break; archery upsets her joints.

"It's nothing," I grumble irritably. The lunch bell rings, and I set the bow and quiver of arrows down to eat. We sit at a table with Johanna and Blight, who has finally made an appearance, as well as Seeder, Cecelia, Woof, and Chaff. Peeta drags Katniss over to the table as well, where she makes a visible effort to be more social. She sits at the end farthest from me, Mags, and Johanna, though, so it's difficult for us to talk.

"You're never going to get her to like you," Johanna murmurs across the table, having noticed my glances at Katniss. "She's one of those protective types. She likes people who need her."

"What are you saying then? Act like a damsel in distress?"

Johanna rolls her eyes. "No, idiot. I'm saying that if you can't get Katniss to like you, earn the trust of the only person she actually does like around here."

"I did consider that," I admit, "but I don't think that Peeta will take kindly to my efforts at cordiality, considering my reputation. She is his fiancée after all."

Johanna shrugs indifferently. "It's worth a shot."

I meet Mags's eyes and see the questions there, but I discreetly shake my head. She purses her lips, but she understands that I'll tell her later, when it's safer.

After lunch I stick with Johanna for a while. She introduces me to Peeta. He seems like a pretty likable guy; if he has any quarrel with me, he doesn't show it. He talks about baking in District Twelve as we throw spears, and I share with him my adventures at sea. I describe what a sunset on the ocean looks like, and he tells me that it sounds beautiful, that he wishes he could take Katniss there to see it. I remember the night before the reaping, how I watched the sunset with Annie in my arms and we gazed at the crisp layers of stars and we made up our own silly constellations. It makes me feel like I just skewered myself in the chest with the spear. After that I take a break from Peeta.

Mags tugs on my sleeve as I'm getting a drink of water. She points to herself, then to Katniss. "You want me to introduce you?" I translate. Mags nods her head.

So we head over to the fishing station where Katniss is patiently listening to the instructor. I tap on her shoulder. Her face sours when she turns and sees me. "Hello, Finnick."

"Katniss," I say measuredly. "My friend just wanted me to introduce you. Katniss, this is Mags. Mags, meet Katniss."

"Nice to meet you," Katniss says, gently shaking Mags's hand. I head over to the neighboring station while they make fishing hooks, and watch with awed amazement as Katniss slowly opens up to endearing, sweet old Mags. Johanna's words echo in my head: _She's one of those protective types. She likes people who need her_. I think of Katniss and how she even became a tribute in the first place. She volunteered for someone, a little scared blonde girl who didn't look over eight. Primrose Everdeen. I remember that name because Mags said that it was beautiful, that if she'd had a daughter she would have named her something like Primrose.

Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's sister. A little scared blonde girl with vulnerable blue eyes, who barely made it up on the stage before Katniss volunteered. Yes, Primrose needed Katniss. I remember her kicking and screaming as a tall boy carried her away and looked like he was ripping his own heart out in the process. Gale Hawthorne. Katniss's cousin. He needed Katniss too, but in an entirely different way, like I need Annie or Mags. But Primrose needed her more.

I eventually give up on stalking Katniss. She will never like me, no matter how charming I try to be. Katniss doesn't care about charisma. At this point, I'm not entirely sure what she cares about.

"No luck?" Johanna says when I shuffle over to her in defeat. "You couldn't even get Lover Boy to like you?"

"Shut up," I snap at her, partly because of the Gamekeepers and partly because, I'll admit it, I'm a bit put out by Katniss's scorn. I never realized until now exactly how much my ego has blossomed.

"I told you, Finnick," says Johanna casually, "Katniss already has a man. You don't stand a chance, no matter how much you bat your pretty green eyes."

I smile, catching on to Johanna's verbal red herring. "It was worth a shot. Mags doesn't seem to be striking out, though."

"I don't believe that Katniss has a pension for little old ladies."

"You never know."

"That's sick." Johanna's look of genuine disgust morphs into amazement as she gazes over my shoulder at something. "Well, would you look at that?"

I do, following her gaze to Katniss Everdeen at the archery station. I, too, am amazed. Katniss is like a warrior goddess, her face intent and relaxed as she systematically reaches over her shoulder, notches the arrows, aims, draws back the bow, and shoots in a series of graceful, fluid movements. Not a single arrow misses its mark, which are many stuffed white birds that the archery instructor is juggling into the air. Every bird falls with an arrow protruding from its body; more impressive, the majority are sticking from where they eye should be. By the time the instructor runs out of birds there are at least twenty bloodless carcasses scattered around the station.

Katniss releases her stance with an air of satisfaction, a small smile playing on her lips. Then she turns to move on and sees us all watching her. She blinks her gray eyes once, shocked at the profound silence of a bewildered audience, and quickly ducks her head as she moves on to the next station like nothing ever happened.

Slowly, the gentle murmurs of conversation begin again. Most are glancing in Katniss's direction; she's with Peeta at the knife-throwing station. Some of them are shaking their heads crossly; some are openly gawking; others are attempting to studiously ignore her and failing miserably. I'm among the gawkers, while Johanna just shakes her head and snorts.

"Showoff," she declares, chucking a spear at a helpless mannequin. I roll my eyes and follow suit, watching the sharp tip of the spearhead pierce the canvas surface of the mannequin with a rough tearing sound. Johanna doesn't fool me. I can see the intrigue in her eye matching those of the tributes around us, and I know that, like me, she will request Katniss for an ally whether she's already included in the conspiracy with Haymitch or not.

* * *

><p><strong>Bum-ba-dum! Day one of training complete. I was most excited to write this part of the pre-arena part of the Games, because Finnick pops up more often than you think. It's obvious that by this point he's in league with Haymitch, and I always imagined him getting frustrated at all of his failed advances.<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	45. CF: The Capitol: Scores

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **S**cores

* * *

><p>"I've concluded that I am hopeless when it comes to archery," I declare as my arrow once again sails over the target. Katniss shakes her head, smiling as she critiques my stance. She's much more sociable now than she was the first day of training. And, I hate to admit it, but her initial social blunders probably had more to do with us as the victors than her. Peeta is charming in his own way, and had the potential of a good ally; but Katniss, what did she have?<p>

Apparently, amazing accuracy. That display with the birds was enough to convince everyone here that Katniss is the one to go for, whether it be as an ally or target. While I can't exactly say that I'm friends with Katniss, I think I've earned at least a bit of her trust. After all, she did agree to instruct me on how to shoot an arrow for an hour in exchange for an hour of trident throwing lessons.

"What do you mean, 'when it comes to archery'?" Johanna remarks. She's sitting in, watching with her attentive eyes that don't miss anything. At this Katniss actually laughs.

"You make me feel so nice and fuzzy inside, Jo," I retort, but when I turn around to playfully scowl at her she has stood up and stalked away. I blink at Katniss. "Was it something I said?"

Katniss shrugs. "Your guess is better than mine."

The next arrow I shoot lands too short of its mark. I throw up my hands in exasperation, converging on Katniss. "How do you make this look so easy?"

"Practice," she answers, grinning. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

Gloss and Enobaria are passing by during this exchange. Gloss raises his eyebrows at the failure of an arrow laying forlornly in front of the target. "You'd think he'd be better than her at shooting arrows. He certainly gets enough practice, doesn't he, Enobaria?"

My fist tightens on the bow as Enobaria ducks her head, covering her gold-plated smile with a conspiratorial hand. Katniss glares at them, presumably in my defense. There's no point in it; Gloss isn't wrong. And that's what makes his remark sting.

"What was that about?" Katniss asks once they're out of earshot.

"Nothing," I snap, a little harshly. "Let's just get on with practice."

Katniss turns her glare to me, but doesn't bring it up again. I silently notch another arrow and release it. Miraculously it hits the edge of the target. I don't feel any accomplishment in the improvement. Katniss doesn't give me any encouraging words.

"How about we move on, hm? I think we're done here," I say in an attempt to be my usual arrogant self.

Katniss offers me a small smile in return. "Oh, yes, you're practically an expert marksman now. A natural."

I wish she hadn't said that.

Gloss's comment has obliterated any intimacy that I might have forged with Katniss. She doesn't attempt to joke around or cheer me up, and I don't try to flirt with her. We just focus on trident throwing.

At lunch it occurs to me that we will be showing off for the Gamemakers today and earning our scores. The lunch table is rowdy with suggestions, because honestly no one knows what they're going to do. What can we do that the Gamemakers haven't seen already?

"Maybe I'll sing," Chaff considers. When his statement is met with laughter he adds, "Seriously! I have a very moving voice. Would anyone like a demonstration?"

"No, thanks," Seeder chuckles. "Stick with the shower, buddy."

"Dancing would catch them off-guard, don't you think?" says Cecelia. "Show some grace and athletic ability while appealing to their aesthetic nature?"

"I think I'm going to strip for them," I say. By this point I've recovered from my earlier discomfort, although I still have the childish urge to make a rude face when I see Gloss or Enobaria.

Beside me, Johanna raises her eyebrows. "You do realize that most of the Gamemakers are men, right?"

"What? A man can't enjoy a good strip-tease?"

"You should do stand-up comedy," Peeta suggests. "You're pretty funny. Tell them that joke about the sailor and the whale. That was hilarious."

"I'll nap," Mags decides with a curt nod.

"You're definitely good at that," I agree with a mischievous grin. "Katniss, did I ever tell you about the time I found her asleep curled up _under _a hammock?"

I spend the rest of lunch recounting to the group the story of Mags falling off of the hammock during one of her infamous cat naps and sleeping there for the entire afternoon, waking up to a grid-pattern sunburn. It's actually a funny story, although Mags pretends to be embarrassed.

Training is skipped and we all head to show off to the Gamemakers. Unlike my first Hunger Games, the tributes don't sit silently and stiffly. We're just as relaxed as we were in the lunch room, chatting with old pals and new alliances. Why should our scores matter? Everyone already knows what we can do, and the sponsors are going to give money accordingly. I, for one, don't have to worry about sponsors.

So when they call me into the room, I do some tricks with my trident and call it a day. Nothing spectacular; I know I'll be getting a decent score at least, and that's all that matters.

What I'm not expecting is the twelve.

Oh, I don't get it of course. I get a nine. The other fit tributes get high scores, and everyone else manages to land somewhere between three and six. But when Peeta's picture pops up on the screen, there is a bright number twelve gleaming under it. Katniss gets one too.

"Two victors, two twelves," I say to myself. "What other Hunger Games firsts are they going to surprise us with?"

If anyone hears me, they don't show it. Nath has dropped his flask. Ore looks stunned. If I had to pick a word to describe Ophelia's reaction, it would be flabbergasted. Mags seems impressed. As for me, I'm just curious. Katniss got an eleven last year, presumably for her archery. But they would have expected that. They certainly wouldn't have given her a higher score for it. And Peeta, what special skills does he have? Did he bake them a life-sized Katniss cake?

Later, when we go to bed, I hunt Mags down and ask her what she did. She winks at me and gurgles something that I think is supposed to mean, "It's for me to know and you to find out." I laugh. Then I ask her what she thinks Katniss and Peeta did to earn their scores.

"Something bad," she sighs. "Angry bad."

"But if they did something bad, wouldn't the Gamemakers lower their scores?" I inquire, confused.

"Targets."

It clicks. "You think they did something that made the Gamemakers angry, and they gave them high scores so that the other tributes would target them in the arena."

Mags nods.

"I don't think that'll work. With all the publicity they've got, they're already targets. And we saw what Katniss can do with a bow and arrow. They're dangerous. Or she is, at least. Peeta doesn't seem like it so much."

I take Mags's round locket and hold it in my hand for a moment, brushing the smooth silver surface with my finger. It's rusted and warped from my time with it. I remember the metal softening in my grip during my second interviews after my Games, and during the talk with the President. "He kind of reminds me of you," I say.

"Nothing like me," Mags disagrees.

"What do you mean? You're both so..." I can't put my finger on the word. But Mags and Peeta both have an almost innocent quality about them, something that tells me they would hesitate to hurt anything or anyone.

"Maybe now, but not then," says Mags. "Not like him then."

I know she's talking about her first Hunger Games all those years ago, but I refrain from asking what she did to win. It's a kind of boundary that I know better than to breach. Whatever she did, I know she's ashamed of it now and would not want to relive it anymore than I would.

The locket slips through my fingers. "Goodnight, Mags."

"Night."

I walk to my room and curl up in bed, knowing that Mags saw the note I slipped into her locket and hoping that she will have the sense to read it and dispose of it safely. I could do without Haymitch murdering me in my sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Couldn't think of a better way for him to tell Mags. Figured this would work, since she's obviously included in some of what's going on. Tell me what you think!<strong>


	46. CF: The Capitol: Instructions

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **I**nstructions

* * *

><p>I awake early in the morning to prepare for the interviews, but there is no need. Everyone else evidently decides to follow my example from training day, so I end up eating breakfast alone. I'm on my third cup of coffee by the time Ophelia saunters in the room. She looks surprised to see me. We fall into meaningless chit-chat until the others arrive.<p>

We don't talk long about the interviews. Ophelia does not need to go over the general etiquette with us; I have retained everything that Augustina taught me, and there is no amount of preparation in the world that will improve Mags's interview. No one will be able to understand her anyway.

Ore helps us decide what angle we want to take, if we want one at all, while Nath helps himself to orange juice and strong spirits. Mags decides just to wing it and answer the questions as endearing as possible. My angle is obvious: seductive. I don't want to answer questions though, so Ore suggests I write a poem or sing a song to relay my emotions to the Capitol. This idea is so ludicrous that I burst out laughing. Surely it's been done before by tributes who are actually talented, but personally I hate poetry and according to Annie my singing sounds like a beached whale. To spare his feelings I tell him I'll think about it.

This is a whole fifteen minute discussion, then we're all free to do as we please. I'm sick and tired of the training room, and I doubt anyone will be in there anyway, so I walk around without a purpose. I run into a few people: Seeder, Enobaria, Beetee, but we don't converse other than the customary pleasantries. Eventually I get bored with even this and ask an Avox to lead me to Johanna's room.

It's nearly on the top floor of the building, a whole wing away from mine. Luckily this building is equipped with an elevator that brings people up and down and, apparently, left and right. The back wall of the building and of the elevator is made completely of glass, so I can see the entire cityscape. I'm so amazed by this that I tentatively ask the Avox if we can ride it again. He smiles a bit as he presses the button.

Finally we make it to Johanna's room and I thank him. He nods and drifts down the hallway in his eerily silent manner. I stare after him for a minute before I knock on Johanna's door, wondering if Aurora is still working as an Avox, or if she is even alive.

Johanna is a mess. Her short brown hair sticks up in every single direction, and she has the pinched, flushed look of someone who is sleeping. It looks like she just rolled out of bed, which she informs me she did.

"It's almost one o'clock in the afternoon," I say.

"After tomorrow there's no telling how much sleep we're going to get," Johanna explains, scowling at me. I doubt this is the true reason for her laziness, but it's a practical excuse so I don't question it. "I'm being resourceful. Besides, this is the last luxury I'm going to get for a while."

_Or maybe at all_, I think. I say, "Well, I'm getting you up. Make yourself presentable and we'll go get something to eat."

"What does it matter?" Johanna scoffs, opening the door so I can step inside. "It's not like anyone cares what I look like next to _you_." She closes the door and immediately begins stripping out of her pajamas anyway. I avert my eyes. Not so much for Johanna's sake, because she has never been particularly modest, but for mine. It's different seeing a naked woman I don't know and already despise, but I've become very good friends with Johanna over the years and I rather like her. It feels dirty, somehow, to see her uncovered body in the intimacy of her own bedroom.

If Johanna notices my squeamishness, she doesn't say anything. When I look at her again she's dressed in a simple green shirt and pants, musing her hair. "There," she says, gesturing down at herself. "Am I presentable enough to go out in public with the oh-so-fabulous Finnick?"

"You're always absolutely stunning, Johanna," I say, offering her my arm.

She rolls her eyes as she takes it. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Odair."

"Hey, that rhymes. Maybe I should put it in my poem."

"Do I even want to know?"

We banter until we get to the café on the fifth floor. I am relatively surprised - although in retrospect I can't image why - to see Haymitch and Chaff attached to a corner of the bar, well into their drink. "Maybe we should just order our food in my room," I offer, passing them a disgruntled look. Their drunkenness is not being faked.

Unfortunately, they notice us before we can get a chance to escape.

"Well if it isn't Johanna and Finnick!" Haymitch booms, raising a bottle in greeting. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"C'mon, Haymitch, don't tease," says Chaff in a carrying whisper. "They're probably on a date or something."

"We're not on a date," I say sharply.

"So defensive," Chaff sniggers, but he waves us over with his one hand. Johanna shrugs and saunters over to them. I reluctantly follow her. Sitting with a group of intoxicated people - Johanna will inevitably drink - is not on my to-do list for today.

Once they get an Avox to generously fill our glasses with spirits, Haymitch gives us a glazed sort of grin. "So, what're you two lovebirds taking about?"

"Finnick was just talking about how he wants to woo me with his poetic genius," Johanna snides, plucking the glass off of the bar and downing it in one smooth swing.

Chaff and Haymitch just give me an identical look of disbelief.

"Ore suggested I write a poem to entertain the Capitol at the interviews tomorrow," I explain, shooting Johanna a look. She only smirks and refills her glass. At this point the Avox has just left multiple bottles of alcohol at our disposal. "Unfortunately, I'm suffering from some writer's block."

"I think you have to actually be a writer to suffer from that," Johanna retorts.

"I'll help!" Haymitch gallantly volunteers. "You got paper or anything?"

When I shake my head, he implores the Avox for a notepad and pen. When the silent blonde woman returns with his request, he bunkers down and begins scribbling ferociously. Johanna shakes her head and nudges my glass.

"No," I say firmly, pushing it away. Some of it splashes on the counter.

"You don't have to get wasted or anything, Finnick," Johanna sneers. "Look, just have a shot. It'll loosen you up a little. You won't be so tense - or such a buzz kill."

"The last thing I need is to loosen up," I say. "And I'm not a buzz kill."

"Have you never had a good drink before, kid?" Chaff inquires, genuinely curious.

"No, and I plan to keep it that way."

Johanna leans in and whispers to Chaff conspiratorially, "He's got daddy issues."

"Don't they all," Chaff snorts. I wonder who 'they' are. "Just listen to the woman, Finnick. A shot won't hurt you. You'll get some hair on your chest."

"My chest hair is perfectly abundant," I remark sardonically. "So no, thank you."

Chaff shrugs. "Suit yourself." He chases that statement with a swing of alcohol, shaking his head like a wet dog once it's down. "This Capitol stuff is nicer than my district's. Don't have quite the same kick though."

"I'm done!" Haymitch announces, interrupting Chaff entirely. He hands me the paper with a wink. "Go ahead and marvel at _my _poetic genius."

With a raised eyebrow I take the notepad from him. Johanna peaks over my shoulder as I read Haymitch's scrawl. Already her breath is heavy with alcohol. I read it aloud at Chaff's request.

"_Beauty, a haven foR my Eyes,  
>A wonDer to my Inner Soul,<br>COllecting my thoughts anD throwing thEm away.  
>my minD IS useless in your presence,<br>you TRansfIx me, CapTIvate me,  
>my Sanctuary, my DArling,<br>YearS could never Tear us apart,  
>tIme is irreLevant to ouR grand Emotion.<br>iT is an endless jouRney, our fIrE, our loVe,  
>our pAssion is unparaLleled.<br>Rise with me, lOve, from our ListLeSs existence,  
>come HOme with me, yoU goddess,<br>foR home iS where the heart is,  
>and my heart is with you<em>."

I sigh and raise my eyebrows at him. "'You goddess'? Really?"

"What? It worked on all the ladies in my day," Haymitch shrugs.

"Come on! It doesn't even rhyme!"

"Look, you don't have to use it! I was just trying to help!" Haymitch sniffs. "Everybody's a critic."

"I'll look at it later," I say, stuffing the paper into my pocket. "It's a good place to start as any, I guess."

Haymitch nods and goes back to his drink. The paper weighs a ton as we sit and eat and, in their case, drink. It weighs a ton as I help Johanna to her room when night falls over the city. It weighs even more the closer I get to my room, as though the secrets inside are holding their breath and waiting to be discovered.

Haymitch isn't illiterate. He's spelled everything right, used perfect grammar, so there's no reason for him to capitalize letters that aren't necessary. Unless, of course, it's a code.

I really do use his poem for a basis for mine. At this point I might as well. With the exception of a few things, it's really not that bad. I half-pretend, half-actually work on improving it, hoping that whatever servalence the President has in this room, if he has any, can't see my tiny, tiny handwriting.

BREADISCODE. DISTRICTISDAYSTILRETRIEVAL. ROLLSISHOURS.

"Breadiscode..." I mutter under my breath. Bread; maybe that means Peeta? "Bread iscode..." _Bread is code_. What does that mean? Peeta's speaking in some kind of code? Does he have code written on him?

"Districtis..." _Bread is code. District is_. Okay. "Daystilretrieval..." Day stil retrieval...no, more like days til retrieval. _Bread is code. District is days til retrieval_. Retrieval from what? The more I solve this, the more confused I'm becoming.

"Rollishours..." Roll sish ours? Roll sis ours? Rolls is hours? That makes no sense, but I suppose that 'days' and 'hours' are both measurements of time. And rolls are a type of bread. _Bread is code. District is days til retrieval. Rolls is hours_.

I give a groan. This makes absolutely no sense! Hopefully it will be better explained some other way, but I highly doubt it. Haymitch has always been infuriating subtle; this is probably his idea of obvious. The likelihood of me knowing what he's talking about before the time comes to put it to use is slim. I'll probably just have to wing it and hope for the best.

"Yeah," I whisper. "Just wing it and hope for the best."

With that I scratch out all of my work and begin a new set of scribbles. These will be the words that I can finally announce to all of Panem - a poem for my one true love.

* * *

><p><strong>It occurred to me that Finnick has to know about the bread somehow so...here you go. This is how he knows. Yay...!<strong>

**Also, with school starting soon and three other stories I'm working on, this might go from being updated every Friday to every other Friday. But the chapters will definitely be longer, since I'll be getting a lot of context directly from _Catching Fire._ Speaking of which...Jena Malone for Johanna? Lynn Cohen for Mags? Does anyone else love these picks for the movie? It's also rumored that Sam Claflin (you know, the guy who played William from that awful _Snow White and the Huntsman_ movie that only the gorgeousness of lovely Liam's older brother, Chris Hemsworth, could redeem?). While I had my heart set on Chris Pine or Matt Bomer, I'm content with this acceptable decision. If it is in fact a decision.**


	47. CF: The Capitol: Interviews

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **I**nterviews

* * *

><p>I finish the poem around the time my prep team knocks on the door. I answer it in a daze, demanding that I consume some coffee before they start doing anything for the interviews. I don't even drink it with sugar and, while it's probably one of the nastiest things I've ever consumed, it succeeds in waking me up.<p>

I still fall asleep as Agrippa does my hair, though. She wakes me up when my head starts lolling around, and offers me a pill that she calls an energy supplement. I pop it in my mouth without a thought - I've probably taken worse - and feel an instant jittery buzz. No wonder these Capitol people are so damn chipper.

Laverna arrives around lunch. She dismisses the others and orders food for the both of us, which I don't mind because whatever she gets tastes so amazing. It's a fruit salad tossed in some kind of honey, wheat rolls with sweet gooey raisins, pasta lightly seasoned with a variety of subtle herbs, fish in a butter sauce, and so on. It's light, Laverna explains, because tributes have a tendency to get queasy on stage. And she's watching her weight.

I raise my eyebrows. She's like a metal pole, very tall and very thin, but I can see how in the Capitol she might be pressured to watch what she eats. Laverna isn't fat by any standard, but she has broad shoulders and wide hips. Her waist is almost disproportional in comparison. If anything it accentuates her large bones. I wonder if her water-themed surgeries are a futile attempt to appear graceful.

After we eat, she gets to work. I wear a simple suit that is such a dark green it's almost black, except for the shiny embellishments on the collar. I point to them. "We're really trying this whole reflective trend that Cinna started?"

Laverna scowls. "I'll have you know that I designed this well before Cinna was ever in the picture, thank you. And it's not like reflective materials haven't been done before. He just went extreme. It's not like I'm making you look like a lantern, or anything."

Apparently Cinna is a touchy subject among his fellow stylists. I don't bring him up again and Laverna tosses her head and finishes up my hair.

She accompanies me down to the stage and leaves with Mags's stylist when we find them. Mags is dressed in a blue gown that covers her nearly from head to toe in gauzy blue fabric. Her hair is looped up on her head. I think her stylist as given her silver extensions, because it looks thicker than usual.

"You look glorious," I say. Mags bows in a formal fashion and I kiss her hand. We walk around back stage until we find the huddle of tributes waiting for the show. Most of them are already here; there's only so much a stylist can do for some of them. In fact, it looks like Katniss and Peeta are the only ones absent.

I go up to Johanna, who looks remarkably stunning in a dress of forest green draping over her lean frame. She has diamond-encrusted copper leaves in a circlet wrapped in her brown hair and tattoos like vines running up her arms. I come up behind her and grab her by the shoulders, inciting a yelp and a string of shrill, colorful obscenities. The copper circlet and eyeshadow brings out her freckles and the gold flecks in her eyes, which are murderous.

It strikes me now that Johanna is beautiful. Not in that sweet, innocent way that Annie is, but in a fierce way. Like a wildcat to a kitten. It's strange that this should be the case. They are both so similar in appearance. They have brown hair, green eyes, freckles, and are rather small and dainty. So why should they be so different?

Johanna punches me hard in the arm then, and I realize that maybe it's her mannerisms that have disguised her looks. "Are you listening to me, Odair?"

"No, not really," I honestly admit. "I was lost in your beauty."

Johanna gives me a look between disgust and disbelief. "You're a pig," she says. But I'm not listening, because Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark have just walked into the room.

Katniss is dressed in a white gown with long sleeves and a tight bodice, all covered in strands of pearls. Peeta is adorned in a black tuxedo and white gloves. They are dressed, not for interviews, but for a wedding.

I should be feeling sympathy for Peeta, who between the two of them probably wants this wedding most. But strangely enough it's Katniss I have pity for, the girl in the bridal gown. A wedding is a bride's day, and her's is being made a mockery of. Just like our victories as Hunger Games tributes are being made a mockery of with this Quell.

Suddenly I lose all respect for Cinna. Is he so desperate to get her sponsors that he's willing to put her through this disgrace? It's despicable.

And I say so, breaking the astonished silence in the room. "I can't believe Cinna put you in that thing."

"He didn't have any choice. President Snow made him," Katniss defends sharply. Of course he did.

"Well, you look ridiculous!" Cashmere scoffs, and grabs Gloss's hand as the bell signals us to get in line. I shake my head and take my place behind Mags, who tosses one last look at Katniss over her shoulder before we march on stage.

Caesar is lavender this year. He gives a heartwarming preamble and introduces Cashmere, who's dressed in a silver see-through number. After a few warm-up questions, Caesar asks her, "How do you feel about being back in the arena?"

I'm expecting some nonchalant answer worthy of a District One Career, but her response surprises even me. "I'm just...shocked. I can't imagine all the sorrow you here in the Capitol are suffering. It must be hardest for you all to watch us do this."

The audience's reaction is immediate, instant sobbing. Caesar asks a few more questions, and once or twice Cashmere even begins to tear up herself. Gloss follows this up with a recollection of how much kindness the Capitol has shown to him and his sister, and how he can't imagine fighting her in the arena. It reminds me of Annie and Quincy. Suddenly I feel a new jolt of empathy for the District One siblings because I realize now that they do love each other like siblings should.

Enobaria's speech is probably identical to her last Games, and so is Brutus's. They are clearly unconcerned about the matter at hand.

Wiress can't finish a single sentence. I think her buzzer rings early.

Beetee's speech is emotionally distant and factual, but equally moving. "Is this Quell even legal?" he inquires after Caesar asks him something about his last weapon of choice, a wire. "After all, the rules of the Hunger Games clearly state that once a tribute wins and becomes victor they are exempt from the pool for life. Perhaps the historians here in the Capitol can look it over? If they truly care about honoring the intentions of ancient Panem, then certainly they can do something to fix this."

Mags's speech is good today. She answers the questions in two or three words, but I can tell by her demeanor that she wishes she could do more. She sits back down and squeezes my hand as I get introduced and the crowd goes wild.

"Finnick Odair! Now, I'm sure everyone here is especially interested in the thoughts going through your head right now," Caesar says with a wink. The crowd laughs, then gives a collective sigh as I smile dazzlingly.

"Well, Caesar, I can't summon the words to say how I feel. The people here in the Capitol..." I choke on my sentences. "Well, I've written a poem to describe my emotions. It's for this really special girl. If she's watching...she knows who she is." I unfold the paper, which I copied a neater version of my poem on, having flushed the other down the toilet.

"Please, share it with us," Caesar offers, gesturing widely to the audience. They applaud until I raise my had for silence.

_"If all the flowers faded away,  
>If all the storm clouds decided to stay,<br>Then you would find me each hour the same,  
>She is tomorrow and I am today.<br>Because if right is leaving, I'd rather be wrong,  
>She is the sunlight, and the sun is gone<em>.

_If loving her is heartache for me,_  
><em>If holding her means that I have to bleed,<em>  
><em>Then I am the martyr, love is to blame,<em>  
><em>She is the healing and I am the pain,<em>  
><em>She lives in a daydream where I don't belong<em>  
><em>She is the sunlight and the sun is gone.<em>

_And it will take this life of regret,  
>For my heart to learn to forget,<br>Tomorrow will be as it always has been,  
>And I will fall to her again,<br>For I know I've come too close._

_If right is leaving I'd rather be wrong,_  
><em>She is the sunlight and the sun is gone.<em>  
><em>She is the sunlight and the sun is gone.<em>"

The auditorium is momentarily silent. Then applauses, cheers, sighs from women who all think this poem is about her. I hope that the girl who knows the truth isn't watching. I told her not to watch. But I know she is, and I know she's laughing or crying. Or both.

The buzzer sounds. "Thank you for that wonderful poem, Finnick," the lavender man says, dabbing at his eyes. "It was truly beautiful."

"No, Caesar. Thank you."

Mags squeezes my hand when I sit down and she smiles at me like she's proud. It's comforting, knowing that I've finally made someone proud.

Johanna's speech is the next memorable act of subtle rebellion against this Quarter Quell. If I didn't know any better, I'd have said all the victors planned it. But then, the Capitol and more importantly, the President, don't know any better.

"Think of how long ago the Hunger Games were established. Surely the Gamemakers then couldn't have foreseen the sacred emotional bond between the victors and the Capitol? They supported us as we battled the elements in the arena. They cheered us on as we fought our way through out of a pit of twenty-three others, arising triumphant." Johanna's ethereal outfit has become armor as she raises her arms into the air, her voice rising boisterously with the defiant tilt of her chin. "And we, the victors, are honored to have their support and appreciation; perhaps even their love?"

Johanna Mason, talking about love. How ironic. I don't think Johanna's ever loved anyone, and if she has, they're long gone, erased out of her life. Perhaps for their own protection. Maybe for Johanna's instinctual self-preservation. It's hard to tell.

Blight reiterates Johanna's testimony. Seeder asks the President almost directly if there's something that can be done. "In District Eleven, we assume that President Snow is capable of anything," she says. "He is, after all, the most powerful man in Panem. Why can't he change this one rule to save his citizens from suffering?"

Chaff answers for her in his spiel. "Oh, the President can change the Quell if he really wants to. He just doesn't care! He doesn't care about any of us! He'd let us die just because a little slip of paper tells him to."

The crowd, who are sobbing, crying, outraged, or something in between, fall into a surreal hush as Katniss Everdeen steps on stage in her wedding dress. She looks a little like an angel, radiant in the spotlights of the stage. And then it's like a bomb goes off, and the place is twice as loud. There are people in the audience demanding that the rules be changed so Katniss can have her wedding, so that she can live happily ever after with Peeta. It takes Caesar at least a minute and a half to get them to quiet down again. When silence is finally restored, he asks her the question he's asked everyone: what do you think about the situation?

"Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding...but I'm glad you at least you get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just...the most beautiful thing?"

Like last year, she raises her arms in the air and does a twirl for the audience to admire her gown. But instead of the giddy, flashing girl on fire, she is a heartbroken girl trying to keep it together. And she really is on fire. Literally.

As soon as she lifts her arms, flames erupt along the hem and sleeves of her dress, devouring the white material away. I'm halfway out of my seat in a state of alarm as Katniss keeps spinning and spinning, and the flames reveal more, and the smoke conceals more. Katniss doesn't seem like she's hurt. The fire miraculously goes out when it hits her neckline. As the smoke clears she appears in a new dress entirely, one made out of black feathers.

In amazement she raises her arms. There is white on the undersides of the sleeves.

I can't stop myself from gaping. Katniss is a mockingjay.

This is obviously as much of a surprise to her as it is to everyone else. Caesar tentatively brushes his fingers along the material of one elegant wing. "Feathers. You're like a bird."

"A mockingjay, I think. It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token."

"Well, hats off to your stylist. I don't think anyone can argue that that's not the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview. Cinna, I think you better take a bow."

The lights are too bright for me to see the famous stylist bow, but I see Katniss's suddenly horrified face. I don't blame her. What is Cinna thinking, using Katniss's dress to change her into the mascot for the rebellion? Not only has he put her in danger, but he's placed himself in a situation where he will certainly not escape punishment. I wonder what President Snow will do to him. Then I decide that I'd rather not know.

Cinna must be in on this scheme in District Thirteen. Otherwise, why would he add fuel to a fire that just won't catch? He must know that there is a tactical rebellion brewing, and he's contributed his own flare. That mockingjay dress will stir hope and passion in the hearts of every oppressed citizen in Panem.

The audience is even crazier than before. Katniss takes her seat, looking stricken. Peeta walks up on stage in his groom outfit. He sniffs the air. "It smells like fried chicken."

This gets a laugh out of the crowd. Caesar grins and sniffs too. "More like a pillow fight gone wrong."

They crack a few more jokes, and then get down to real business. When asked about his thoughts on the Quell, Peeta replies, "I was in shock. I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and then..."

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?"

Peeta pauses for a long moment. Then: "Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?"

I can't see where he's going with this. Is he going to tell the truth about him and Katniss, about how survival is their primary reason for getting married at all? Or at least, it is for Katniss. I've seen the way that Peeta looks at her; I know that, whatever President Snow or Katniss might think, he's not faking it.

"I feel quite certain of it," Caesar says.

"We're already married," Peeta confesses. There is a collective gasp from the audience. Everyone turns directly at Katniss, but she's earthed in her feathery skirts. What's going on? Already married?

"But...how can that be?"

"Oh, it's not an official marriage. We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District Twelve. I don't know what it's like in other districts. But there's this thing we do, where we toast bread and the bride and groom share it."

"Were your families there?"

"No, we didn't tell anyone. Not even Haymitch. And Katniss's mother would have never approved. But you see, we knew if we were married in the Capitol there never would have been a toasting. And neither of us really wanted to wait any longer. So one day, we just did it. And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us." A lovely speech, but Katniss is still buried in her skirt.

Caesar nods sympathetically. "So this was before the Quell?"

"Of course before the Quell! I'm sure we'd have never done it after we knew," Peeta exclaims. He goes on about how they never saw it coming, and Caesar murmurs his condolences.

"At least you two had at least a few months of happiness together," he adds, and the crowd goes wild. Katniss peaks out and smiles at the crowd, encouraged by their empathy to the lovers' plight.

Peeta shakes his head. "I'm not glad. I wish we had waited until this whole thing was done officially."

This surprises everyone, even Caesar, even me. What is Peeta thinking? "Surely even a brief time is better than no time?" Caesar inquires.

"I might think that, too, Caesar," Peeta sighs. "If it weren't for the baby."

Automatically, I am stunned, and I look at Katniss, who is emotionless. Everyone is baffled. Then the audience erupts. They stand and rip out their hair and make noises I didn't even know humans had the capability of making. They are outraged by the inhumanity of it.

Who sends a pregnant woman into the arena to fight for her life?

The buzzer rings and Peeta sits down. Caesar is still trying to calm down the crowd. The anthem blares from the speakers so loud that I can feel the vibrations in the wood of the stage. I can't hear anything as I stand up. I feel like I might be knocked over from the music, or the force of the Capitol's rage.

On the screen, I see Katniss grab Peeta's hand. And Chaff's stump. And Chaff grabs Seeder's hand. I turn to Mags and she that she has already offered me her hand. I take it, and I take the hand next to me. Everyone has joined hands. We are a front, joined together by our hands and our might. United.

The screens die, but too late. The entire nation has already seen.

And then the lights go out and utter chaos ensues. I lose someone's hand and someone steps on my toe. "Don't let go!" I yell at Mags, but I don't know if she can hear me. "Don't let go!"

Someone grabs my sleeve. "Finnick!" It's Johanna. "Come on, let's go before we get trampled. I saw them go this way. Come on."

I know who 'they' are, and so does Mags. She releases my hand as Johanna drags me away, knowing she would only slow us down, knowing that solitude with the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve in this moment could potentially be vital to our relations in the arena. Johanna drags me down to the Remake Center and elbows her way through the swarm. We see Katniss and Peeta get into the elevator, but Peacekeepers have intercepted us and are holding us back, asking where we're going, wanting to know what we're doing back here, why we're not with our mentors. The elevator doors close and it's too late. They're gone.

"It's nothing," I tell the Peacekeepers. "We're trying to find our mentors. We don't know where they went."

"Finnick!" That's Ore. I can only see him because he's so tall. He practically carries Mags through the crowd on his back. He's breathless when he reaches us. "I've looked all over for you."

The Peacekeepers have gone to settle other matters. Ore rolls his eyes and hits the elevator button. "Let's get out of here. It's a mad house."

Johanna stays behind in the elevator, nodding at us without a word as the doors close and she's whisked up to her own room. Nath is waiting for us when we get to our rooms. For once, he is sober. "They canceled the recap of the interviews," is all he says.

We watch insanity and protest unfold on the streets of the Capitol in silence. All because of Katniss's supposed baby. I wonder if she really is pregnant. I doubt it. I doubt that they are even really married.

Someone comes to the room after about half an hour of this. It's Haymitch, looking solemn and determined. "I'm sorry to intrude," he says huskily. "But I need to talk to Finnick."

His tone makes it clear that he desires a private conversation. Mags gives me a peck on the cheek and leaves. Ore claps a hand on my shoulder, gives me a quick embrace, and follows suit. Nath just salutes us and heads in the opposite direction, toward the kitchens and the booze.

"What can I help you with, Haymitch?" I ask. Why has he thrown all caution to the wind and come to see me? This could potentially ruin all of his plans if he doesn't play it right. It must be important.

"Katniss will need all the help she can get in the arena, with her...condition."

I raise my eyebrows. "So you didn't know about that either?"

"No. I didn't suspect..." he sighs and puts his head in his hands. This, of course, is all an act; even if Katniss really was pregnant, Peeta would inform Haymitch that he was telling the world. "Anyway, she'll need help. But she doesn't trust anybody."

"She made that perfectly clear," I say blandly. I still haven't made any progress in befriending her. The elevator was the last chance I had, and the Peacekeepers ruined it.

"But she trusts me. Or my judgment, at least," Haymitch says. "I want her to be as safe as possible in the arena. And I know you're someone who can deliver. I want you to ally with her and I know from that official request you sent me you want her as an ally too."

"Yes, but that still doesn't solve the main problem here: _She _doesn't trust me."

"She will if she knows that I do. If you bring something of mine in the arena, she'll know that I gave it to you and ally with you." Haymitch pulls something off of his wrist. It's a golden bracelet with flames all along the side. The first thing I wonder is why Haymitch would even own such a thing, but then I realize what he's saying and my mouth becomes a thin line.

"You want that to be my district token so she'll trust me," I say.

Haymitch nods.

I never thought of something like a district token as important. I didn't even have one for my first Games. No one but Mags offered me one, and in my rage at what I thought was betrayal I refused hers. But this year I have one, and I was so glad I had one, so glad I had a piece of Annie to take with me to the arena. I had Annie with me, and no one would care.

I pull the necklace from under my shirt. It's a little piece of round polished green sea glass hooked to a golden chain. I remember walking on the beach with Annie one evening. She suddenly darted into the ocean without warning, running fearlessly into the receding shallows. I had run after her in alarm. She bent down and retrieved something, and was standing all wet in the middle of the waves examining it.

I remember her smile as she held it up for me to admire. _Look, Finnick_, she'd said. _It's sea glass. Hey, it matches your eyes exactly_. She grabbed my hand and gently placed the cold, wet glass in my fist. After the Quarter Quell announcement I had it made into a necklace, and I haven't taken it off since.

"Haymitch," I say desperately. He can see in my eyes how much this silly little stone means to me, he can hear it in my voice, but he is unrelenting. He continues to wave the golden bracelet in my face so the flames flicker and flash in the light. I know he wouldn't ask me to do it unless it was absolutely necessary. But it still kills me inside to unclasp the chain and feel that familiar weight around my neck removed. I hold the stone in my hand. _Hey, it matches your eyes exactly_. I notice a little fleck of blue embedded deep in the translucent surface of the stone and it's not my eyes that I see.

Slowly, I hand it over without a word. Haymitch gives me the bracelet and carefully uncoils the golden chain so it doesn't tangle. "Thank you, Finnick. I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"Go," I manage to get out. The word sounds like something a strangled cat would produce, but Haymitch stands up and exits the room. I stare at the golden bracelet, wishing I could thow it out the window.

Instead, I clasp it onto my wrist. It weighs a ton.

* * *

><p><strong>First thing's first. The poem is not by me because I suck at poetry. It is a beautiful song called <em>She is the Sunlight<em> by Trading Yesterday, and I think it's the perfect love song for Finnick and Annie. Among my other favorite songs for them are _The Ocean_ by The Bravery, which I believe embodies Finnick's remorse and yearning in his life, _Drive My Soul_ by Lights, which is an Annie-centric and describes how much she relies of Finnick emotionally, and _The Saltwater Room_ by Owl City, which is just a lovely duet that personifies their reluctance to fall in love in the beginning. There is also another song, _The Water_ by Hurts, that I'm convinced was hand-crafted for Johanna after her torture in the Capitol.**

**And it's official, folks: Sam Claflin is Finnick Odair. Reactions, anyone? Personally, I think he'll do okay. **


	48. CF: The Arena: Day One

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **O**ne

* * *

><p>Get up. Get dressed. Insert tracker so you will never be truly alone again. See your stylist. See the outfit you will most likely die in. All standard procedure for a Hunger Games tribute.<p>

This year the outfit is a bright blue jumpsuit made of strange material, white nylon boots, and a thick purple belt. Usually one can gauge the conditions of the arena at least a little by the outfit they're assigned, but even Laverna is baffled.

"It's not made for extreme weather of any kind unless there's something I'm missing," she comments. "It's not good camouflage."

"Yeah, well, I'm counting on a quick Games this year. I doubt there will be much time for hiding," I say. Laverna gives me a look. She straightens my jumpsuit and stops when she spots Haymitch's golden bracelet.

"Where's that rock you've always got around your neck? I figured that would be your district token."

"Lost it," I whisper. Laverna doesn't say anything else. She just puts her hand on my shoulder, squeezes it, and steps back as I climb on the metal plate that will lift me into the arena. She waves goodbye as the glass comes down around me and the plate moves up.

At first I'm utterly disoriented. The ground all around me is bright and squirming. Oh, what if there is no solid ground? What if it's some kind of gelatinous goop?

After a few blinks I realize that I'm not surrounded by gelatinous goop, but by miles of clear blue water reflecting the light of a hot white sun. A wall of fresh breeze rushes into my face and I'm wrenched by a feeling of severe homesickness. I don't even have to look to see that this is saltwater. Fresh water, drinkable water, is too easy.

"Ladies and gentleman, let the seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!" says the voice of Claudius Templesmith. Now I have a minute to survey my surroundings. I see the golden gleam of the Cornucopia in a patch of white sand in the center. Separated evenly by water and two tributes are spokes of island covered in wild greenery. Cecelia is next to me, fidgeting nervously. I wonder if she knows how to swim. Katniss is six tributes away, next to Mags's friend Woof. I wonder if she knows how to swim. I really hope she does. Peeta is directly across from Katniss. Let him know how to swim. Please don't let either of them drown. I can't see Mags at all.

The sky is a flat pink, unbroken by clouds. The water looks deep. I get into a diving position. My advantage here is astronomical.

The gong goes off. Without a second thought, I dive. It's easy, so much easier than swimming in the ocean, almost so much that it throws me off. I'm more buoyant in my midsection than I should be. It must be the belt. I knew the material was strange.

In mere seconds I'm at a spoke of land and I'm sprinting to the Cornucopia like Katniss. I can see her in the corner of my eye. I'm tracking her every move. At the mouth of the Cornucopia there is a pile of supplies. I had a weak suspicion that there might be a trident, but honestly I'm more shocked than anything else when I see it nested against the lip of the symbolic metal structure. And wrapped in a strong rope net. How convenient.

There's no time to think as I grab the trident and run to Katniss. I need to get to her before someone else does. Thank the seas she knew how to swim. Very well, too, because she's already reaching for a golden bow when I reach her.

As soon as I'm close enough to talk to her she's got an arrow pointed at me. I'm already in an offensive stance, but this only makes my muscles coil in anticipation. I shoot her a smile. I think it's more of a sneer. "You can swim, too. Where did you learn that in District Twelve?"

"We have a big bathtub," Katniss retorts. Customary sarcastic remark, equally as offensive as her stance. Her arrow is still aimed for my heart. I know she won't miss. Luckily everyone else is still swimming, so we've got some time to warm up to each other.

"You must. You like the arena?"

"Not particularly," Katniss snaps. "But you should. They must have built it especially for you." This has also crossed my mind in the brief period I've had to look around. Between the water and the trident, it's almost like I've been set up for success. Then again, Katniss also has that bow.

I smile at her for real this time, a disarming smile that I try to put genuine feeling into. "Lucky thing we're allies. Right?" Katniss gives me a look. I see a minute twitch of her fingers and I know she's getting ready to let that arrow fly. Quickly I move my hand so the light flashes on Haymitch's bracelet. It catches her attention and once again she freezes.

I hear footsteps. _Come on, Katniss, hurry up_, I think. Neither of us can afford to stay here forever. She needs to decide now.

"Right!" she barks with a curt nod. I don't have time to be relieved. A figure emerges from behind her, a silhouette I can't identify.

"Duck!" I yell at her, and to my surprise she obeys. I throw the trident and hear impact. The man from District Five falls to his knees. I can't look at him as I free my trident from his bloody chest. Even though she probably already knows, I tell her not to trust Districts One and Two.

Her only response is: "Each take a side?" I nod and we split, scavenging for supplies. Most of the people on my side are still stuck on their plates, but Brutus is making his way down a strip of island. I dig through the pile, but all I can find is weapons.

"Anything useful?" I ask. Maybe the pile is separated by category.

"Weapons! Nothing but weapons!"

I curse under my breath. Of course. "Same here! Take what you want and let's go!"

I'm still shifting through weapons, piling knives and anything else I can find into my belt when Katniss meets me at the front of the pile. Brutus is getting too close for comfort. "Take care of that, will you?" I say, gesturing to him. Katniss notches and arrow and shoots. Brutus uses his belt as a shield and deflects the arrow, but it punctures his belt. Purple liquid oozes out and covers his face. He falls to the ground, rolls into the water, and submerges. Either that liquid is suffocating or acidic. Behind us, more altercations are sounding.

"Let's clear out," Katniss orders. I follow her to the other end of the island and down the spoke closest to Peeta's plate. He is still stranded on it. Evidently he didn't use the same bathtub as Katniss in District Twelve.

Katniss begins removing her gear, but I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "I'll get him." Katniss is a good swimmer, but I don't think she is physically capable of quickly and efficiently tugging Peeta through the water, belt or no belt.

Nevertheless, her eyes flash with suspicion. "I can."

I've already dropped my weapons, leaving me entirely vulnerable. I wish that Katniss would just let me do this for her, but she won't let me near Peeta without a reason. I have a feeling that criticizing her physical prowess won't go well, so I turn to her only, probably false, vulnerability. "Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition," I say. I pat her stomach for emphasis and walk to the edge of the water. After a retort doesn't come, I tell her to cover me and dive.

Peeta doesn't waste any time with pleasantries when I get to his plate. He's obviously seen that Katniss has tentatively trusted his life in my hands and is patiently waiting for me to come rescue him. Before I can even get the words, "Don't worry, Katniss and I are allies" out of my mouth, he's lowered himself into the water while clinging to the plate.

"Let's go," he says, reaching out to me. Trusting me with his life and Katniss's. I can see it in his eyes. I occurs to me that if I wanted to I could drown him, right here, right now, I could. Katniss is distracted. I could take her down too, grab Mags, and go.

But I won't. And Peeta knows it.

He doesn't struggle as I wrap my arm around his chest and begin an awkward one-armed stroke to land. He tries to help by kicking, but I snap at him after our legs get tangled and we momentarily submerge.

We finally make it to shore. It is then that Peeta does something remarkable. He looks me in the eye and says, "Thank you."

I don't reply as Katniss swoops down on us and hauls Peeta out of the water. It shouldn't seem strange that Peeta's expressed his gratitude after I've saved his life, but it does. Maybe it's because we're in a Hunger Games arena, where any act of decency is something alien.

"Remind me," Peeta is saying to his fiancée, "did we make deals with anyone else?"

"Only Mags, I think," Katniss says. She gestures toward Mags, who is paddling her way over here. I can't help but smile. I haven't seen Mags swim in five years.

"Well, I can't leave Mags behind. She's one of the few people who actually likes me," I tell them. It's a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"I've got no problem with Mags. Especially now that I see the arena," Katniss remarks with an ounce of contempt. "Her fishhooks are probably our best chance of getting a meal."

"Katniss wanted her on the first day," Peeta boasts.

"Katniss has remarkably good judgement," I say, stuffing the last of my knives back into my belt and scooping Mags out of the water. I know that Katniss liked Mags, but the two of them are one team that I can't see operating in the arena.

"Belts are bobs," Mags gurgles, patting the purple stripe. About three spokes of island away I see Beetee, who obviously can't swim, convulsing around in the water in a sorry attempt to tread and somehow maintaining a fraction of buoyancy.

"Look, she's right. Someone figured it out," I say, pointing to Beetee for clarification.

Katniss still looks confused. "What?"

"The belts. They're flotation devices," I explain. "I mean, you have to propel yourself, but they'll keep you from drowning." Which is handy until someone sees you flailing and kills you in the water.

I wait for Katniss to suggest that we get Beetee, since they were so cordial in training, but after a lingering glance at him she insists we move on. I'm rather disappointed with the decision but concede. Our party is big enough already anyway, and we can only afford to have one slow person. Beetee's mind might be quick, but his legs are much less so.

After Katniss stocks Peeta up on weapons and Mags somehow coerices an awl out of her, we run away from the Cornucopia and emerging Careers. They will be upset that there is no food or supplies. Careers always rely on that in the Games. They're killers, not survivors.

Even with Mags on my back the trek isn't difficult. It is aggravating, though, because it is more humid in this place than it has ever been in District Four. I feel like I'm wearing the air. The incline is steep and even with Peeta ahead of me cutting the foliage, the roots and vines roping across the dark jungle mulch are enough to trip anyone up. We have to be careful.

I glance back behind me. Katniss is scoping the trees behind us, her arrow notched. I turn back ahead before she notices I'm looking at her. I'm extremely uncomfortable with turning my back to her, alliance or no alliance, and although I'm fairly certain she won't do anything as long as Mags is in the way, I can't be too careful. People never cease to surprise me.

I notice when Mags's legs and hands start to tremble after about an hour of this humid hike. Peeta is looking a little damp as well, so I suggest we take a break. No one objects.

We stop beside a tall, rubbery tree. As I let Mags down, Katniss begins to climb it to assess the damage. Within a few minutes she's out of sight.

She's gone for a long time.

Peeta seems nervous. He shouldn't be; if anyone should be nervous, it should be me. Aside from a swift Games, there is another advantage to designing an arena made up primarily of water: dramatic affect. I imagine that the other tributes didn't join hands, and that at this very moment Brutus, Enobaria, Cashmere, and Gloss are systematically killing the tributes who are stranded on their plates. Allowing their lifeless bodies to splash into the water, watching as the glittering blue surface absorbs the scarlet stain of their blood.

I grab my trident when I hear Katniss making her way back down. Peeta gives me a look, but I'm not taking any chances. And when she comes down, she has her arrows at the ready. I know it would have only taken her a second to kill me had I not been prepared.

"What's going on down there, Katniss?" I inquire, even though I already know. "Have they all joined hands? Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed their weapons into the sea in defiance of the Capitol?"

"No," says Katniss.

"No," I repeat, putting careful emphasis on the word. "Because whatever happened in the past is in the past. And no one in this arena is a victor by chance. Except maybe Peeta."

I don't say it flippantly. It's come to my attention that Peeta has yet to try to kill anyone. He has no enemies. He's a genuinely kind, developed person. Unlike the rest of us here, who are driven by our instincts to survive or protect what we care about.

Katniss and I size each other up. I've seen her shoot, I know she won't miss her mark. I should try to block, then go for the kill before she notches another arrow. At the very least I need to move so she doesn't hit any vital organs, although I don't think I'll last long in this place with a useless shoulder.

Peeta breaks the tension by stepping firmly between us. His back is to me. If I wanted to kill him now, I could.

Haymitch's bracelet slides on my wrist as I lower my trident. I could, but I'm not going to.

"So how many are dead?" he asks Katniss.

"Hard to say. At least six, I think. And they're still fighting." Katniss is preoccupied, still trying to gauge whether or not to attack.

"Let's keep moving," Peeta says. "We need water."

"Better find some soon," I pitch in. "We need to be undercover when the others come hunting us tonight." There is no doubt that we _are _the hunted. For now.

Katniss answers with a reluctant "Fine," and we move on for about another mile of hiking uphill. At this point we are all extremely thirsty. We've lost a lot of water through sweat, and we've yet to find any to replenish ourselves. Mags is actually starting to doze off on my shoulder, but she manages to keep her eyes open.

We come to a lip in the trees, and Katniss suggests that we go downhill and try to find a spring. It's worth a shot, so we continue forward. Peeta is panting as he swings his machete back and forth, cutting the vines. I hear Katniss gasp behind me.

Suddenly, there is an ominous zapping sound and something solid and heavy brings Mags and I crashing to the ground. I smell burning hair, then I hear Katniss screaming Peeta's name. She runs over and kneels beside him, pressing her fingers to his mouth, putting her ear to his chest. "Peeta!" she screams again, hysterically shaking him. "Peeta, wake up! Peeta!"

I quickly make sure Mags's is okay before I head over there and gently nudge Katniss aside. She watches, confused, as I assess the damage caused to Peeta. There is no heartbeat, no respiration. Methodically I pinch his nose together as I prepare for CPR, but Katniss goes ballistic and tries to shove me away. Irritated, I swat at her. Peeta doesn't have much time left.

I pinch his nose again and tilt up his chin. It's been a while since I've had to do this, but everyone learns CPR in school. It's like swimming. It's second nature.

I bring my mouth to Peeta's and blow. Then I unzip his jumpsuit and start resuscitation in sets. I do this four times before there's any response. I know I can't stop. Without Peeta, Katniss will kill me. And I don't want to die quite yet. "Come on, Peeta..." I mutter, gritting my teeth as I try to revive him.

Finally Peeta's eyes flutter open and he coughs. Relieved, I sit back and let him catch his breath. Katniss scrambles over to him and helps him up, leaving her weapons in the dirt. She runs her fingers over his face, brushing strands of hair out of his eyes with a tenderness I haven't seen her display since last year with the little girl from District Eleven. Rue.

I look at Mags, who's been watching like a little owl with her back against a tree. "Are you alright?" I ask her. "You hit the ground pretty hard."

She waves a dismissal hand, rolling her eyes as though she is the last thing I should be worried about.

"You were dead! Your heart stopped!" Katniss shrieks, bring our attention back to her and Peeta. Much to my surprise, unrestrained tears are running down her face. She covers her mouth against the sobs that are escaping. And the worst part? It's not an act. If it was, her weapons wouldn't be there beside the tree, still forgotten.

Peeta tries to calm her down, but it's not working. I scan the jungle foliage, but I know I won't see the cameras. That doesn't mean they aren't there. And Katniss isn't looking good for the cameras. At all.

"It's okay, it's just her hormones. From the baby," I say. The nonexistent baby that seems to be a constant excuse for Katniss today. She attempts to protest but is cut off by another round of uncontrollable sobs. Instead she glares at me venomously. I wonder what could be making her so upset. Could it really be...Peeta?

I shake my head to clear it. Whatever the reason, it's time to move on. People die in the arena all the time; there's no point in dwelling over an almost-death. Still, a shock from a force field definitely rattles a person. "How are you?" I ask Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?"

"No, he needs to rest," Katniss protests. Mags hobbles over and hands her some moss that she found growing near the base of the tree. Katniss uses it to clean herself up a bit. She frowns at something on Peeta's chest and picks up a golden necklace. "Is this your token?"

"Yes. Do you mind if I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match," Peeta answers, and it's such a ridiculous statement that I can hardly stop myself from rolling my eyes. I wonder if that's truly the reason, or if he intentionally wore it as some kind of symbol. Then again, I doubt Peeta has any idea what's going on. Haymitch probably manipulated him into wearing it. Told him that it would help Katniss somehow, which it doesn't.

But that's one thing Haymitch is good at. Manipulation.

"No, of course I don't mind," Katniss says with a smile.

"So you want to make camp here, then?" I ask, bringing the conversation back to more practical matters.

"I don't think that's an option, staying here with no water, no protection. I feel alright, really," Peeta ensures with a vigorous nod. "If we could just go slowly."

"Slowly would be better than not at all," I admit. I help him up and steady him against some residual vertigo.

"I'll take the lead," Katniss says, double checking her weapons as she pulls herself together.

Peeta begins to object, but I hold out a hand to silence him. "No, let her do it." Something clicks in my mind. Katniss's gasp before Peeta hit the force field, her immediate panic before I even had time to process what was happening. "You knew that force field was there, didn't you? Right at the last second? You started to give a warning." Katniss nods to confirm it. "How did you know?"

"I don't know," Katniss says. "It's almost as if I could hear it. Listen." We're all really quiet, but I can't hear anything other than the sound of the insects around us.

"I don't hear anything," Peeta says.

"Yes, it's like when the fence around District Twelve is on only much, much quieter," Katniss insists. We listen again for a few more minutes, but only Katniss can hear the mystery sound. "There! Can't you hear it? It's coming right from where Peeta got shocked."

"I don't hear anything either, but if you do, by all means, take the lead." I certainly don't want to get shocked out of my boots. I'm pretty sure no one here could save me. Mags is too brittle and light.

Katniss looks quizzical. "That's weird," she says, turning her head from side to side. "I can only hear it out of my left ear."

"The one that the doctors reconstructed?" Peeta asks. I raise my eyebrows. I didn't know Katniss's injuries had been so severe.

"Yeah. Maybe they did a better job than they thought," Katniss says with a shrug. "You know, sometimes I do hear funny things on that side. Things you wouldn't normally think have a sound. Like insect wings, or snow hitting the ground."

"You," Mags says, nudging Katniss forward.

"Wait, let me make you and Peeta some canes or something," I say, surveying the trees for suitable branches. "That way you can keep up on your own."

"Really, that's not necessary," Peeta says. "I feel fine."

"It's no big deal," I insist, searching the trees and snapping off a few branches. It takes more muscle than I intended, but eventually I fashion suitable walking sticks for the both of them. "No need to over exert yourself. I'll take the rear."

Katniss heads onward. Despite her superhuman hearing, she still throws some strange, unidentified nuts ahead of her at intervals to stay safe. Mags catches the roasted nuts and begins peeling off the shells and eating them. When Katniss discovers this, she looks astounded. "Mags, spit that out! It could be poisonous."

Mags smacks her lips and utters something like, "We'll see." Katniss turns to me, but I can only laugh myself. Mags wouldn't eat the nuts if she didn't recognize them from somewhere. She's not that careless.

But there's no need to tell Katniss that.

"I guess we'll find out," I say. Mags cracks another nut.

We walk for another mile before Katniss suggests we take another break. We've still yet to find water, and I'm starting to feel fatigued. Mags and Peeta are worse off. They nearly collapse on the ground as Katniss scales another tree.

"You doing okay?" I ask Peeta as he pants, wiping sweat from his brow.

"I'd be better with some water," he remarks. "But all in all I'm good. Thanks, by the way, for saving me. Again."

"All in a days work," I say.

Peeta purses his lips at me. "Why are you doing this anyway? Helping us?"

"I probably shouldn't tell you this, but I have a huge crush on Katniss and I'm trying to score some points by playing the hero to your damsel in distress," I joke. "When I finally earn her trust, my plan is to sweep her off her feet and leave you in the dust."

"Well, then I guess I should stay on my toes," Peeta grins. "You're a better kisser than I am."

"Don't sell yourself short, you're not to bad yourself. At least you didn't spit saltwater in my face."

Mags rolls her eyes. "Boys."

Katniss lands with a thump as she jumps down from the tree. "Bad news. The force field has us trapped in a circle. A dome, really. I don't know how high it goes. There's the Cornucopia, the sea, and then the jungle all around. Very exact. Very symmetrical. And not very large."

"Did you see any water?" I ask.

"Only the saltwater where we started the Games."

"There must be some other source," Peeta considers. "Or we'll all be dead in a matter of days."

"Well, the foliage is thick. Maybe there are ponds or springs somewhere," Katniss sighs. "At any rate, there's no point in trying to find out what's over the edge of this hill, because the answer is nothing."

"There must be drinkable water between the force field and the wheel," Peeta says. We all look at each other. Between the force field and the wheel. Away from the safety of solitude. Into the fray.

"Well, we can't head there now, not in the condition we're in," I point out. "Maybe we should just move down the slope a few yards and go that route for a little longer. There might be water there."

We do, but by midafternoon the sun is beating down on us and we're moving at a snail's pace on account of Peeta and Mags. They are unable to go on. "Let's make camp," Katniss says, stopping.

"Let's move up a bit, closer to the force field. We'll use it to our advantage if we get attacked," I suggest. I find a spot about ten yards from the force field, surrounded by grasses that will be good for weaving comfortable mats and makeshift tents since we don't have any supplies via Cornucopia. Mags and I immediately set to work weaving the mats together, and Peeta gathers bunches of the nuts that Mags ate and starts preparing them. Katniss seems at a loss of what to do, so she goes off on her own to hunt and search for water.

After she leaves, we hear the first cannon.

My fingers freeze as more booms fill the air. We're all silently counting, all unwilling to breathe the number aloud. Eight. Eight people have died today. A third of us, gone.

I don't think I've ever been more afraid of night in my life. Afraid of what faces I might see in the sky. Will Johanna be there? Beetee or Wiress? Chaff? Woof? I know the man from District Five will be there. I killed him.

I go back to weaving the mats with a new intensity, focusing my attention on that. I don't want to think about faces anymore.

By the time Katniss comes back, Mags and I have manufactured mats, huts, and bowls for the nuts and water. Unfortunately there is still no water to be found, but Katniss shows us a huge, ugly rodent she shot. "He'd been drinking recently when I shot him out of a tree, but I couldn't find his source. I swear, I covered every inch of ground in a thirty-yard radius."

This gives us some futile hope. We debate if the tree rat is okay to eat, and then on ways to cook him without alerting everyone in the arena. Fire is out of the question. The smoke could be seen from anywhere.

Peeta has the idea of using the force field to fry it up. The outside is blackened and burned, but the inside is cooked to perfection. We praise him for his thinking and get to eating. For a meal in the arena, it isn't bad. The only thing that would make it better is water.

Water. It's now clear that this is our top priority. We need to find it by tomorrow, or we won't last much longer. I drill Katniss on the whereabouts and activity of the tree rat before she shot it, but she says that it wasn't doing anything suspicious. Snuffing around for bugs in the branches and such. Eventually I give up as the sun sinks below the horizon and my mind is occupied by other pressing matters as the moon takes its place.

The seal erupts into the sky, along with the anthem. I brace myself for what's to come. I don't know, and I think that's the worst part. Mags grabs my hand with a surprisingly iron grip. She's just as terrified as I am.

The first person is District Five. Then Corrick, Cecelia and Woof, Leah and Garrick, Inize, Seeder.

I wonder if Peeta felt like this when he got zapped by the force field. I can't breathe. Cecelia's kids don't have a mother any more. Seeder, who cried when Rue died last year, who sent Katniss the bread on behalf of District Eleven. Corrick, the morphling from Six whose name I never bothered to learn until recently because of my shame. I wonder if he ever forgave me for killing his tribute ten years ago. Or if he even remembers.

Mags sniffs and wipes her eyes. I hug her. "I'm sorry about Woof," I whisper. She nods, but she doesn't say anything. Woof and Mags were close, as close as Haymitch and Chaff or Johanna and me. As close as any two victors from different districts can be.

I force myself to think on the positive. Johanna is still alive somewhere. That's very good news. I think that was the face I was most afraid of seeing.

Katniss and Peeta are silent beside us. They don't know the victors as well as Mags and I, but the death of anyone you know can be heartbreaking.

The anthem plays for a second time and the seal blinks out of existence. There isn't a single other noise, not even the parachute as it glides down like a silver leaf from the canopy above.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Man from Five, Corrick, Cecelia, Woof, Leah, Garrick, Inize, and Seeder.<strong>

**Alive: Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, Beetee, Wiress, Finnick, Mags, Woman from Five, Vivienne, Johanna, Blight, Nel, Chaff, Katniss, and Peeta.**

**This chapter just kept dragging on and on...I think it's the longest chapter so far. Oh well. We all know these Games don't last very long anyway.**

**You can definitely tell which names I've made up and which names I've used from the books. I'm horrible with names. I didn't even bother to name the people from District Five because I'm too lazy and I suck at it so bad. **

**I hope you guys don't find this redundant. I'm trying not to repeat every little thing said in _Catching Fire_, trying to add my own flare through Finnick's version of events. But there's only so much extra I can add, you know? Anyway, make sure you tell me how you think I did. :) **


	49. CF: The Arena: Day Two

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **T**wo

* * *

><p>"Whose is it, do you think?"<p>

Katniss is the first to speak. The silver parachute gleams in front of us, waiting patiently for someone to pick it up and discover the mystery of its contents.

"No telling," I say. Honestly, ownership of the thing doesn't seem important to me. We're all going to use it, whatever it is. "Why don't we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?"

Peeta crawls over, unties the cord, and uncovers the object. He sets it down on the parachute for us to examine. It's a hollow tube made of thin metal, tapered slightly at one end, curving downward at the other.

It's utterly unfamiliar.

I suspect that maybe it's a device Katniss and Peeta use in their district, but they are just as clueless as Mags and I. Peeta blows in it to see if it makes a significant sound. I tentatively risk my pinkie to see if it is some kind of weapon. Mags can't fish with it. There's nothing else we can think of. It's just a piece of metal as far as anyone can tell.

I hand it back to Katniss and watch as she examines it, holding it up to the moonlight and turning it every which way in her hands. She's thinking particularly hard about it. I rack my brains trying to figure out if I've ever seen anything like it, but I can't think of anything. Frustrated, Katniss jams it into the dirt. "I give up. Maybe if we hook up with Beetee or Wiress they can figure it out."

Beetee. Now I really wish I would have scooped him out of the water. I wonder how he survived the bloodbath. When we last saw him, he was paddling in the water. He would have had help. But from who? I can't think of anyone who cares enough about Beetee to risk their neck for him, or for Wiress. Now that I think about it, she survived too.

I tell myself that they probably just ran away without any supplies. One of the morphlings from Six survived, didn't they?

Katniss jerks upright, startling us out of our personal reveries. "A spile!" she exclaims, gaping at the metal object in the ground.

"What?"

She's too busy prying the instrument out of the ground and tenderly brushing the dirt away, turning around in her hands again. Finally she answers. "It's a spile. Sort of like a faucet. You put it in a tree and sap comes out. Well, the right sort of tree."

"Sap?" I inquire. _Spile_, _sap_. Words I've never heard before. But then, I'm willing to bet that these two star-crossed lovers would cock their heads at words like _conch _and _mast_.

"To make syrup," Peeta explains. He glances curiously at the rubbery black trunks around us. "There must be something else in these trees."

The tree rat's wet muzzle. The lack of fresh water anywhere else. Faucet.

There can only be one thing in these trees.

We're all standing up before any of us blurt it out. Our thirst is suddenly magnified by the closeness of the fresh water surrounding us, if what Peeta and Katniss say is true. I grab a rock and take the spile from Katniss, preparing to hammer the metal object into the trunk. She grabs my arm. "Wait, you might damage it. We need to drill a hole first."

"With what?"

Mags offers us the awl that I completely forgot she had. Peeta wedges it in the bark of the tree, pressing his full weight against it until it's about two inches in. Then we take turns wiggling it around, making the hole bigger with the awl and our knives. Finally, Katniss declares it suitable and sticks the spile inside. We step back and wait.

A drop of water rolls down the spile, and Mags sticks her hand out to catch it. It lands in the center of her palm. She licks it off, smacks her lips, and holds out her hand for more. Katniss adjusts the spile a little more until a thin trickle of water is streaming out. We take turns quenching our thirst. The water is luke warm, more like bathwater than anything else, but no one complains.

Mags brings out the bowls and fills them with water. We each take big gulps, rehydrating ourselves, and even splash our faces clean. It feels good to get rid of the sweat and grime that has already begun building up on my skin.

Now that our main problem is solved, we all realize how tired we are. Peeta and Mags look pretty worse for wear even with the water, and Katniss seems like she could use a little bit of rest herself. "I'll take first watch," I offer, and no one objects.

"Wake me up when you get too tired," Katniss says, securing the spile to her belt with a vine and laying down next to Peeta on some of the grass-mats. Mags pats me on the arm before curling up on her own mat. Everyone is asleep within minutes.

I sit on a mat and watch as the sky grows ever darker. A trident remains in my hands, gleaming silver in the fuzzy white moonlight. President Snow must have wanted a nice, quick Games this year, to just stock the Cornucopia with weapons. To get rid of Katniss and the other rebelling victors as soon as possible? Or to make sure that the Capitol doesn't dwell over the deaths of their champions too much? With the President, it's impossible to figure out his motivation.

Katniss murmurs in her sleep, snuggling closer to her fiancée. There's another person whose motivation is so ambiguous. Is Katniss Everdeen truly as oblivious and virtuous as Haymitch makes her out to be? It seems like it. She is not perfect, nor is she particularly pleasant, but there is some kind of purity about her that is hard to understand. She's proven that she is not above killing people to survive, but I don't think she would set out to do it. And she's always killing for something, for someone. For her sister, for the little girl from District Eleven, for Peeta. Someone she cares about.

Peeta is another story entirely. He is as kind and pure as Katniss, perhaps even more so, but he is more attentive than she is. He is aware of the happenings around him. But Peeta is not a man of action, at least not of the defensive sort. He is a compromiser, but out here there is no room for compromise. It's kill first, ask questions later. Without Katniss, he would be dead.

I listen to the sounds of the rainforest. I feel like I am on an alien planet. Is there even a district that is like this bizarre place? I haven't heard of one, nor did I see one on mine or Annie's Victory Tour. It's hard for me to distinguish what is animal from what is other, different. I'm constantly jumping up, surveying the foliage, sitting back down. Well, at least it doesn't allow me too much time to think. Thinking is dangerous and painful.

After a few hours of this, a sudden loud chime sounds through the arena. It is not a cannon shot or the gong. It sounds almost like the toll of a bell. I can't quite place it, but it sounds familiar.

Katniss starts into consciousness during the chiming. We both listen in silences as the final _bong!_ fades into silence. "I counted twelve," I say. Katniss nods. I know we are both thinking the same thing: twelve? One for each district? What else could it be?

There is no other anomaly. Claudius Templesmith doesn't announce a feast or a rule change. A lightning storm begins in the distance, signifying rain, probably for the victors who are still without water and getting ready to undramatically dehydrate. Nothing else, though. It was just twelve random chimes.

Katniss sits up and stretches, grabbing her bow and arrows. "Go to sleep, Finnick," she orders, standing up. "It's my turn to watch, anyway."

I open my mouth to object, but then surrender. I was beginning to doze off anyway, would've probably had to wake her up soon. I curl up near Mags in a hut, gripping my trident as I close my eyes to face the nightmares I'd been avoiding.

* * *

><p>It doesn't seem like I've slept for very long when I hear screaming.<p>

A woman's voice. Katniss's voice. "Run! Run!"

I'm up immediately, the blood roaring in my ears and trident at the ready as I prepare to attack the enemy. But there is no one but Katniss, who is frantically trying to wake us up, and a large wall of fog heading our way.

Unnatural fog.

I don't think. I just grab Mags and start running, running away, fleeing from the enemy I cannot defeat. I hear Katniss and Peeta's heavy, uneven gate behind me. Katniss is shouting at Peeta, commanding him, encouraging him. I turn around and realize that they are far, far behind me. Peeta is too slow and weak from the force field to move efficiently enough. The wall of fog is right at their heels.

As much as my every instinct is telling me to run, to go, to leave them behind, I force myself to stop. I can't leave without them, without her. "Come on! Over this way!" I yell. I can't do much more.

Mags gurgles something. I don't know if it is a question for me or additional encouragement. Peeta and Katniss sluggishly make their way toward us. They are heavily blistered and burned. Suddenly, Peeta's leg catches on some underbrush and they both fall. Katniss tries to help him up, but her arm is moving elastically, jerking out of her control.

"Sorry, Mags, got to go back," I mutter, gritting my teeth as I head into the fog. As soon as I get close enough to help, I feel the mist burrow into my skin and blister. Memories of acidic raindrops, of the surge of polluted water sloshing around me, of the screams of a drowning girl penetrate my senses. It takes the pain of the blisters to bring me back to reality and away from that swamp.

I order Mags to hold on as I grab Peeta and start dragging him down the hill. Katniss does her best to help, but her limbs are out of control. Peeta's are even worse, jerking all over the place, hampering our efforts. The stinging burn of the fog is starting to affect me. I remember what Spring said about the acid rain all those years ago, about how the water dilutes it, and start heading toward the beach. It's our best hope, but I don't know how far it is. I don't think we can make it.

When it becomes clear that Peeta's limbs are too cumbersome to continue dragging him like this, I stop. "It's no good, I'll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?" I ask Katniss. She nods, and Mags crawls from my shoulders to hers. I sling Peeta over my back and we're off again, this time at a better pace. But the fog is still on us, digging into our skin. The stinging is now becoming an agonizing burn.

Katniss falls behind me. I throw a glance at her over my shoulder, but she's getting up so we continue on. My arms are starting to convulse. My muscles feel like someone is pulling on them, making them leap and jerk. "Peeta, how're your hands?" I ask.

He grunts and nods, wiggling his fingers. I pass him my last trident. I don't know where the other two have gone. "Take this."

Katniss falls again. She gets back up.

Almost there. Are we almost there? My arms are jerking and twitching. Peeta has to hold on by himself. Katniss falls again. She doesn't get back up this time. Mags rolls off of her, trying to help her off the ground. Peeta makes a noise, so I turn around and go back for her. The fog is heavier around us, pooling at our feet. Deadly, silent, ethereal.

"It's no use. Can you take them both?" Katniss inquires. "Go on, I'll catch up." She struggles to grab on to a vine, a trunk, but her legs aren't working, her arms aren't working.

Neither are mine.

"No," I rasp. My eyes are brimming with tears as I realize what this single word means. I can't carry them both. I can't support them both. I'm not working, I'm not right. "I can't carry them both. My arms aren't working. I'm sorry, Mags, I can't do it."

I can tell that Mags understands. I watch the shift in her lily pad green eyes, the graceful embrace of what she has to do. I don't want her to understand. I want her to be angry, betrayed, hurt. I want her to act selfishly for once in her goddamn life and tell me to carry her. I would. If only she would tell me that it was okay to leave Peeta behind and carry her. I would abandon everything, Peeta, Haymitch, Panem, if only she would let me do it.

But she won't. And she doesn't.

She picks herself up off the ground and kisses me on the cheek like she did that first night in the train ten years ago, after I watched the reaping with her, Nath, and Muriel. Then she dauntlessly hobbles into the encroaching fog.

I can't watch. I can't watch the fog violently rip the life away from my Mags. I can't watch that ever-present glow disappear from her eyes. I hear the sound of the cannon boom through the arena, and then I can only do what I know Mags would want me to do.

I move forward.

I shut out everything, everything but the steps I take down the incline, toward the water. I put everything I have into that next step. Every movement is searing pain, every breath is agony. But I keep going.

Keep going. Keep going.

Finally my legs give out from under me and I sprawl to the ground. Peeta lands on top of me, and I can't use anything to get him off. I can only groan when I feel the impact from Katniss's body as she joins us on the ground. I want to tell them to go on, to continue, to leave me, but how can they? They are as incapacitated as I am. It isn't fair of me to urge them to go on when I can't even do it. And why should I? What purpose do I have now, with Mags gone?

Katniss croaks something. She clears her throat and tries again. "Stopped," I hear, and I turn my head to look at the fog. It has indeed stopped, and is rising up into the sky like some kind of ethereal ghost.

They roll off of me, and only the power of sheer relief gives me the strength to roll on my back. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath, but it seems impossible. How am I still alive?

"Mon-hees," Peeta whispers. I crack open an eye and see strange orange-gold creatures waiting, staring, in the branches of the trees. They are like small, furry, wrinkly humans. I feel like I've seen them from somewhere, but I don't think I ever have. And yet, the same word comes to my mind. Perhaps District Twelve has something like monkeys, and that's where I know it from. From my Tour, from school, from somewhere. Whatever the case, I don't like them.

Luckily, though, they don't seem intent on harming us. After a while, Peeta picks himself up and begins to crawl toward the water. Katniss follows suit, a small whimper escaping her throat as she hoists herself out of the sand. I grit my teeth, brace myself, and do the same.

It's not just pain. It's like my nerves are exposed. It's like someone has their hand clamped around my brain and is moving my limbs, this way, that way, without permission. I don't even make it to the water. I collapse just beside the shore and close my eyes. I pretend that it is Annie beside me instead of Katniss, and that she's letting the waves wash over her on the beach. I pretend that Mags is here too, somewhere, swaying on a hammock under the shade of the palm trees.

I close my eyes, embrace the darkness, and pretend that I am home.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Mags :'(<strong>

**Alive: Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, Beetee, Wiress, Finnick, Woman from Five, Vivienne, Johanna, Blight, Nel, Chaff, Katniss, and Peeta.**

**I realized it's almost been a month since I updated. Sorry folks, busy busy me. And what do I have to give you? A really, really depressing chapter. **

**As always, let me know your thoughts. **


	50. CF: The Arena: Day Three

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **T**hree

* * *

><p>I am nothing. I feel nothing. I am a small presence curled up somewhere in the center of my chest, writhing in turmoil. A hollow ache that is inescapable, like something vitally important is missing. I just don't know what.<p>

Then the pain makes me grow. Pain that starts at my chest, like someone is setting it on fire. When that eventually dies away, a burning begins somewhere else on my body that I didn't know existed. Limb by limb, I expand. I am brought out of the darkness in the center of my chest, drawn into my arms and legs and fingers and toes, until it's almost as though the place in my chest I occupied is the part of me that doesn't exist anymore.

I hear voices. A groan. My voice? A woman. My name. Annie? Mags?

No. No, not Annie. Annie is in District Four, and I know I'm not there. Mags? Could it possibly be Mags? No, Mags hasn't spoken this clearly since her stroke.

Am I dead? Did I die? Is the woman whose voice I'm hearing an angel? I heard stories from Mags about them, glorious women with soft white feathery wings who lived in the skies. The ancient people worshiped them before the War that caused their ultimate destruction. I wonder how people can kill each other in the presence of such purity, if the stories are true and angels really did swoop about in the heavens.

I open my semi-conscious eyes, see a face above me vaguely. A woman. Dark hair. I can feel the cushion of her thighs under my head. My head is in her lap. Is she stroking my hair? What is that feeling surrounding my head, like something caressing me?

If I'm dead, am I seeing my mother? I'd always just assumed she was dead, and she's the only dead woman I can think of who might care about me. I try to speak, to ask her if she is my mother, but I can't talk. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper.

The details become clearer as my mind sharpens. Dark hair, sharp features. Blisters scarring her olive skin. Gray eyes boring into me, eyes like thunder clouds or the smooth pebbles in a tide pool. Another face appears, murmuring to the woman in soft tones. Blonde, blistered, blue eyes. Male.

No, not angels. Not my mother. Katniss and Peeta.

Well thank the seas. At least I'm not dead.

I'm in the water. They must be cleansing me of that toxic fog. I suppose that water dilutes acid in whatever form, rain or vapor. I'm still half delusional, so I send a silent thanks to Spring, where ever she is.

When I think I can feel everything, I raise my arms above the water. Katniss and Peeta exchange a brief, relieved smile. Was I really that bad?

"There's just your head left, Finnick. That's the worst part, but you'll feel much better after, if you can bare it," Peeta explains. I really wish he hadn't added that last part, but I brace myself and nod for them to dunk me.

It's like a sunburn on my face, but a hundred fold. I grip their hands as I gurgle and spit and snort the water, wishing that with each gurgle and spit and snort that it will all be over. After a while the pain does begin to subside. I release them and do my own thing, dunking myself until the agony in my face is reduced to an unpleasant tingle. I start swimming around, slowly at first, but then like I would swim in the ocean, artistic strokes and corkscrew spins. It feels amazing. If I close my eyes, I can pretend I'm back home.

It's when I'm about to pop up and look for Mags when it hits me.

Mags is gone.

Some gaping, empty monster yawns in my chest, and I feel like I have a black hole inside of me. I hold my breath, staying under water, swimming, swimming, swimming; away from the truth, away from the horrible pictures behind my eyelids. Mags. Mags, why did you have to go and do that?

When I can't hold my breath anymore, I shove everything deep down inside me. I tuck away that black hole so it's in a corner of myself, invisible but present. I compress it into something I can handle for right now. Later I know it will hit me so much harder, but I'm still in shock-survival mode, and I'm going to take advantage of that.

I pop up with a gasp beside Katniss, who jumps and splashes me. "Don't do that," she chastises, rolling her eyes.

"What?" I tease. "Come up or stay under?"

"Either. Neither. Whatever. Just soak in the water and behave. Or if you feel this good, let's go and help Peeta," she commands, and for a moment I find it ironic that in my delirious half-conscious state I thought she was my mother. She sure sounds like it right about now.

We wade out of the water and start walking toward the jungle. When we get to the tree line, though, Katniss freezes in front of me. I tense, alert and looking for danger. She puts her hand on my arm and looks straight up at the branches of the trees.

I follow her gaze and see them. Monkeys, scores and scores of the golden beasts we saw earlier, are gathered in the canopy, watching us with beady black eyes. Katniss and I quietly shift into fighting stances. The monkeys do nothing but stare.

"Peeta, I need your help with something," Katniss says. Her voice is deceptively calm and quiet. Obviously we don't want Peeta bursting through the foliage.

"Okay, just a minute. I think I've just about got it...Yes, there!" he exclaims, still focused on the tree. How can he not sense the monkeys above him? Their presence is obvious now, an oppressive force in the trees. Then again, Katniss and I are more in tune with our instinctual, bestial side. It's already been established that Peeta is genuinely, profoundly human. "Have you got the spile?"

"I do," Katniss breathes. Her voice is still calm, however it is gradually becoming more strained. "But we've found something you'd better take a look at. Only move toward us quietly, so you don't startle it."

Peeta has finally become aware of Katniss's tone. "Okay," he says, taking slow, careful steps forward. Katniss watches him. I watch the monkeys.

He notices them and glances up for just a second. But it's enough.

They rain down like a curtain of golden fur, slipping down the vines of the trees with an unnatural grace and speed, converging on Peeta. As Katniss and I crash into the greenery to help him, she spits out the word "Mutts!" like a curse.

We hack through the mutated monkeys, but more of them replace the dead. Black talons, white fangs, glittering eyes, golden hackles, scarlet blood. The battlefield is a blur of color. I get lost in it. Is that flash of gold from a monkey, or from my trident? Whose blood is running down my arm?

Eventually Peeta, Katniss, and I end up back to back to back in a triangle in the midst of the monkeys. Katniss shoots her last arrow and calls for more while she slashes with her knife. I adjust to defend them while they exchange weapons, but a monkey hurls itself at me before I can.

The other monkey comes out of nowhere, heading straight for defenseless Peeta. The woman comes out of nowhere too, into the path of the monkey, embracing it as it sinks its teeth into her chest.

I've seen a shark bite someone before. A little girl, at the beach. She fell off of the pier and into the water. I remember how she screamed as the shark latched on to her leg and wouldn't let go. I remember how a man had to jump in the water and get her out, how he had to stab the shark again and again until it finally released her. The girl survived, but the shark took her leg. She uses crutches or a chair with wheels to get everywhere now.

This is the same, and different. The morphling woman from District Six screams, but it is a battle cry. The monkey doesn't let go, even as Peeta stabs and stabs it. Not until he pries it off of her and kicks it away.

I know this woman won't survive.

"Come on, then!" Peeta cries out to the monkeys. It's the angriest I've ever seen him. He looks like a deranged madman, covered in blood with a machete in his hand. "Come on!"

But it's over. An unseen voice calls the monkeys away, and they disappear into the vines. Katniss hesitantly lowers her arrows. She glances at the morphling, then at Peeta. "Get her. We'll cover you."

Peeta gently picks up the morphling and carries her to the beach. Katniss follows with one last suspicious look at the foliage. I watch her cut away the material of the morphling's suit. I see the wounds she will not recover from. But mostly I see the state of her body that has nothing to do with insane golden monkeys. Yellow skin, empty eyes covered by film, bones that jut from her flesh. She surely had enough money to afford food. Under the influence of drugs, maybe she forgot to eat.

"I'll watch the trees," I say. It's complete and utter cowardice. I don't want to watch this woman die. Or the husk of what's left of a woman. Could it be my fault that she turned to morphling? Could it have been that heartless, mechanical thrust of my trident that sent her over the edge? The boy from District Six I killed, whose name I never bothered to learn. I never learned his mentors' either, even after ten years. Who am I to intrude on the peace of her death, when I don't even know her name?

Besides, I don't think I can watch anyone else die today.

I think about this as I pluck Katniss's arrows from the carcasses of the monkeys, and even I cannot convince myself that I'm not avoiding her because of guilt. I listen to Peeta's gentle murmurs to the poor morphling and I want to start crying. I wish I was more like Peeta. I wish I could still feel a little bit human. You know someone is a good person when an insane old lady throws herself at a wild beast to protect him, and you still can't find it in you to pin the blame on him.

She protected Peeta from the monkeys. She must have worked for Haymitch.

My fist clenches the arrows. Haymitch. Yes, Haymitch is someone who I can pin the blame on. And not only for this morphling.

The boom of a cannon startles me out of my reverie. I turn around and watch Peeta carry the morphling's lifeless body to the water. I turn back around and finish gathering the arrows. After I'm done, I head over to the shore where Peeta and Katniss are waiting. The morphling's body is gone.

I dump the arrows next to Katniss. "Thought you might want these."

Katniss thanks me and goes to rinse off the weapons. Peeta and I hear the rustle of leaves behind us, and swiftly spin around to face an advisary. However, it is nothing but the vines moving of their own accord, curling around the monkeys' bodies and dragging them back into the foliage. The vines shift again, and the monkeys are also gone.

I shudder. "This just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"Yes," Peeta says, offering me a glance. "It does."

I don't meet his gaze. His eyes, they're suspicious. Accusatory. Could he actually catch on? Perhaps Peeta is not as naive as I thought. Which poses a problem regarding the secrecy of Haymitch's plan. Although I have a feeling that Peeta doesn't care much about anything but Katniss's safety, and Haymitch's plan definitely ensures that.

Katniss wades back over to us. She asks where the monkeys went, and falls silent after I tell her. It's an eerie concept, the Gamemakers controlling even the plants. What next?

"Don't scratch," she orders suddenly, glaring at Peeta and me. I look down to see my fingers moving up and down my arm of their own accord, relieving the itch of the scabs that have begun to form on my skin. I look over at Peeta and see he's in the same guilty stance. Scabs are forming on all of us, blossoming over our skin like bloody, ugly flowers. Katniss's chastisement only intensifies my discomfort, and I have to struggle to place my hand at my side. "You'll only bring infection," she continues. "Think it's safe to try for the water again?"

We go back to the tree Peeta was tapping before the monkeys' attack and guard him while he finishes the job. After sating our thirst, we decide to make camp. Katniss offers to take first watch, and the lull in activity and adrenaline suddenly brings the black hole inside me back to the surface. I feel like someone reached inside me and hit me with a club. I can't even think it. The thought of sleep, of rest, of laying under the stars without anything to distract me is enough to drive me insane. I don't know if I can do it.

So I say, "No, Katniss, I'd rather."

"Alright, Finnick, thanks," she replies after a moment of hesitation. She must see something in my eyes or hear something in my voice, because she doesn't argue. She just lays down next to Peeta and closes her eyes, hands resting possessively over her bow.

I take up my trident and sit a bit closer to the jungle, away from them. I don't want them to hear me cry. Screw trying to win over the audience, screw maintaining my façade as a playboy without a care in the world, screw Panem. I just lost one of the most important people in my life, and I'm going to cry for her.

Mags.

I think about everything she's done for me. From that peck on the cheek that kept me together on the day of the reaping, to giving me her sister's locket as a district token, and forgiving me after I ignored her advice and blew up on her before going into the arena. I remember all the times she was like a mother to me, a mother when I didn't have anyone to even call family. I remember watching her grow older with grace until the day of her stroke, that awful day that is burned into my memory. A day almost as horrible as this one.

I remember walking in to see her splayed on the floor, her eyes glazed over and nearly lifeless. I remember how I panicked and it was Annie who remained calm, it was Annie who called for her mother to call the healer. I waited in the room with her, grasping Annie's hand like life support, muttering to myself, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready." I will never forget the words Annie spoke to me as she stroked my hair and held me close.

"You'll never be ready to lose someone you love."

Those words ring true. I'm still not ready. I want Mags here with me. I still want to see her toothless smile and her kind green eyes. I'll never be ready to lose Mags. But that doesn't change the fact that she's already gone.

The warm gush of blood under my nails tells me I'm scratching my scabs. I grab some grass and begin weaving, frantically, like my life depends on it. I weave and I weave and I weave. I think. I weave.

Mags. After all that time I thought I was supporting her. But it was really she who supported me, who steadied me when I stumbled. I was just a child tugging at her skirts. Just once, just the one time she needed to lean on me, I crumbled. I couldn't catch her when she fell. I couldn't carry her when she needed support.

I let her down, the one time she ever needed me.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and hold the small grass boat out in my hands. I stand up and take it to the shore, where the water laps gently on the sand. It's peaceful. A miniature beach. Perfect.

I obviously don't have Mags's ashes. I don't even have anything that belonged to her. I do have Haymitch's expensive golden bracelet, so I place that in the boat before lowering it into the water. I give it a little push, and it floats into the water after an unsteady series of bobs. I watch it go, the golden of the bracelet bleached silver in the moonlight.

It's a full moon. Candra. I can't help but smile just a little bit. At least Mags will see her sister again. Although I miss her, although I feel like I let her down, I know that Mags will forgive me and that, in the end, she's finally getting a happy ending much deserved.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Vivienne (which is the name I gave the morphling from Six, but Finnick forgot it).<strong>

**Recap: Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, Wiress, Beetee, Finnick, Woman from Five, Johanna, Blight, Nel, Chaff, Katniss, and Peeta are all alive.**

**I thought I'd give Mags's death a little bit of an uplifting ending. Wouldn't want you guys to get too depressed. And again, I'm sorry for the delay with the chapters, but I am super busy and I was having computer troubles so I couldn't write as much as I wanted. Darn technology!**


	51. CF: The Arena: Day Four

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **F**our

* * *

><p>I don't exactly feel <em>better <em>after mourning Mags, but I feel...more stable. Muling things over has given me time to focus on the task at hand: protecting Katniss and Peeta. Most of the people involved with Haymitch are dead or missing. It's up to me.

I keep my hands active, partially for the sake of doing something and partially so I don't fall back into itching the blisters on my skin. I weave bowls for water and food, mostly, until it occurs to me that we'll probably need water and food to fill them. So I tap some trees and wade in the water, gathering a variety of shellfish in the last bowl. The resources here are plentiful and untapped. There's more food on this beach than there is at home.

It's mid-morning when Katniss sits up, brushing sleep out of her eyes. I've settled down with the shellfish and am mechanically cracking the shells and slurping them out. Yum. "They're better fresh," I say as means of an invitation to join me. I don't meet her eyes as she wordlessly reaches to take one. Only when she pauses do I look at her and notice her bloody skin. She's been scratching the scabs in her sleep.

"You know," I say, mimicking her voice, "if you scratch you'll bring on infection."

"That's what I've heard," Katniss snaps, accompanying it with a look of playful irritation. She stands and wades into the saltwater to wash off the blood. Then she stomps back on the beach and shouts up at the sky, "Hey, Haymitch, if you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin."

I don't even have time to agree before the silver parachute is floating down with a canister of something. Katniss gives a mock scowl as she retrieves it, muttering under her breath. She plops down beside me and opens the lid, wrinkling her nose at the thick green paste. Bravely she takes some and spreads it on her leg. Relief washes over her face, and she quickly begins to spread it over her other leg. I catch the tube when she tosses it to me, eyeing her dyed green-gray skin with distaste.

"It's like you're decomposing," I say. But when she doesn't give a rebuttal, I take a glob and begin smearing it over my arm. Immediately the burning itch disappears in favor of a soothing cooling sensation. Still, though, the ghastly color it leaves behind is downright disgusting, especially for someone like me who relies so heavily on my appearance for sponsors.

Katniss smirks at me, evidently enjoying my discomfort. "Poor Finnick. Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?"

"It must be. The sensation's completely new," I say in mock amazement, although no one can possibly remember the truth: that until the day of my first opening ceremony I was the scruffiest of teenagers. "How have you managed it all these years?"

"Just avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it."

"Not if I have to keep looking at you."

We finish layering ourselves in the green goo, using up about half the tube. The result is worth it though; where the goo is administered, the itching ceases to exist. I bet this does wonders for sunburn.

"I'm going to wake Peeta," Katniss says after we look like something from a nightmare from head to toe.

Heh. Nightmare. That gives me an idea.

"No, wait," I say. "Let's do it together. Put our faces right in front of his."

We position ourselves on either side of him. Katniss shoots me a grin before she gently shakes Peeta's shoulder, cooing to him in a melodic voice. "Peeta. Peeta, wake up."

His eyes flutter open, and when he catches the sight of two mutilated green things smiling down at him he reels back with a yelp. Katniss and I fall back on the sand, laughing our heads off as Peeta catches his breath and glares. Or tries too. Peeta doesn't have the glare mastered like Katniss does.

We've just recovered when our second parachute for the day descends upon us. I blink, trying to think of something we might need. The shellfish is more than enough food, and we have the spile for water. Now that our itchy skin is cured, there isn't any other pressing matter to attend to.

As I get closer though, I realize what it is.

Bread.

I grab it and turn in over in my hands, blinking at it in wonder. Haymitch's message hidden in the cheesy love poem flashes across the back of my eyelids: _Bread is code. District is days til retrieval. Rolls is hours_.

District is days until retrieval. This bread has the green tint of seaweed from my district. Four.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. There isn't going to be a winner for the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games. The third Quarter Quell isn't going to conclude. Because in four days, Haymitch and his contacts are coming to retrieve us from the arena.

So there's hope. I just have to keep myself, Katniss, and Peeta alive for four more days.

"What's that?" Peeta inquires.

"Bread," I answer, blinking out of my reverie. "This will go well with the shellfish."

I clean the shellfish while Katniss rubs Peeta down with the goo. Then we gather more water, plunk down under our shelter, and feast.

It's a good meal. We eat and we talk about our districts. I realize then how different Katniss and Peeta really are. They lived in different worlds before the Hunger Games brought them together, even though they're from the same district. Katniss tells me stories about her sister and mother, the coal mines, her cousin Gale, her friend Madge. Peeta talks mostly about the bakery his father owns. He doesn't mention much about friends or family.

I listen, and occasionally describe aspects of District Four for them. But I don't tell any stories. Most of them involve Mags or Annie, and when I try to get a word out it stops in my throat.

The screaming comes suddenly, without any warning. It's in the distance, but it still sends shivers up my spine. A spot of jungle sways back and forth of its own accord, and a giant wave driven by an unnatural force crests above the trees, slamming down into the water. We're a far distance from it, but the water still rises around us and takes our things. We manage to collect them all before the sea whisks them away for good.

Once the water gets back to normal, we rearrange ourselves and begin to settle in for another shift of watch. I wonder who the wave killed, but quickly shut down that train of thought.

Katniss gasps and points at something in the distance. "There," she breathes. Peeta and I follow her finger and spot three figures emerging from several yards away. We scurry into the jungle, weapons at the ready as we observe these people until they are determinately friend or foe.

They don't seem like a threat. They're all dyed a brick-red color, much like our own gray-green alterations. The one in the middle is practically dragging the second behind it, while the third dances in small circles.

"Who is that? Or _what_?" Peeta amends, squinting. "Muttations?"

Katniss slowly reaches behind her and draws an arrow, aiming at the figures. The weakest one finally collapses on the sand, while the middle one drops it and stamps in frustration. It turns and shoves the dancing one into the sand, waving its arms wildly.

Hope and then pure elation bubbles in my chest when I realize who they are. Because there's only one person in this arena with such a short temper.

"Johanna!" I shout, running out of the foliage. She whips around and blinks at me, then her red face splits into a big white grin.

"Finnick!" I come to a stop in front of her and notice that the figure on the ground is Beetee, while the dancing one is Wiress. Strange. Johana dislikes the tributes from District Three. She continues to rant, oblivious to my befuddlement. "I've looked all over for you! These two have driven me absolutely crazy!"

"What happened to you?" I ask, taking in her appearance. She's disheveled and stiff and red-brown from head to toe.

"We were walking around, practically dying of thirst, when we saw some lightning and heard water. We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood. You couldn't see, you couldn't speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it." She stops, looking momentarily very un-Johanna-like. "That's when Blight hit the force field."

I recall what happened when Peeta hit the force field. And I'm willing to bet that none of them knew CPR. "I'm sorry, Johanna," I say sincerely.

"Yeah, well, he wasn't much, but he was from home. And he left me alone with these two," she says, returning to her haughty demeanor. She glares at Beetee and nudges him with her foot. "He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia. And her - " We all look at Wiress, who's continued her circles and his muttering "Tick, tock," under her breath. "Yeah, we know," Johanna huffs. "Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock."

I wonder what could've put Wiress in shock. Was she affected by Beetee's injury the same way Annie was affected by Quincy's death? Or was she already so unstable that the shock of the arena got to her brain?

Wiress is lured by Johanna's voice and bumps into her. Johanna snarls and pushes her into the sand again, scowling. "Just stay down, will you?"

"Lay off her," Katniss snaps behind me. I completely forgot about her and Peeta in my excitement over Johanna, but I notice Johanna's thin-lipped, narrow-eyed scowl at Katniss and decide to take action.

But not quickly enough.

Johanna steps forward and slaps Katniss across the face. The smack is so loud that even I wince, and Katniss's head snaps to the side. Johanna is far from done. She takes another step forward, clenching her fists aggressively as she shouts. "Lay off her? Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You - "

I snatch Johanna up and toss her over my shoulder, ignoring her protests as I carry her into the ocean and dunk her until she shuts up. Before she says anything else that will tip Katniss off.

"Okay, you can let me go now!" Johanna growls, hitting me until I oblige. Her face is still red, but not so much from the blood anymore. "Overkill, much?"

"I just didn't want you to say or do anything you'd regret later," I say.

Johanna rolls her eyes. "I was perfectly in control."

"Were you?"

She doesn't grace this with an answer. She just plugs her nose and dunks her head in the water, scrubbing the blood out of her hair and off of her face. "Were's Mags?" she asks when she comes back up, peeling the suit off of her body.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Johanna glances up at me sharply, but she reads my face and doesn't pester me any further. Slowly and methodically she cleans herself up, studiously ignoring the people on the beach. "I've had just about enough of Nuts and Volts," she says. "I'm lucky I ran into you, or they'd be dead, because I would've killed them. At least I thought that until I realize that Miss 'Girl on Fire' was such a - "

"It's good to see you too, Jo."

We go back over to the beach after Johanna is clean and calm. She plants herself down and drinks and eats to her heart's content while I fill her in on the events of the past couple days. Or what seems like days. If I'm supposed to keep track of the days in the arena to guess when we're supposed to be rescued, I should probably start doing a better job.

I don't really want to talk, but Peeta and Katniss are too preoccupied with taking care of Beetee and Wiress to explain anything to Johanna. I do my best, but I still can't bring myself to talk about Mags. Like last time, the words just stop in my throat.

"Some of us should get rest while we can," Katniss decrees after she's done coaxing food and water into Wiress.

"I'll take watch," I volunteer.

"You had watch all last night," Peeta says. "I think you'd better get some sleep."

"I'll do it," says Johanna, stretching. "I'm too pumped right now to sleep anyway."

"Me too," Katniss agrees. So I lay down on my mat while Peeta gets Beetee and Wiress situated. I must have been more tired than I thought, because even in the blazing light of the afternoon sun my eyes grow heavy and I fall into a thick, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Blight<strong>

**Recap: Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, Enobaria, Wiress, Beetee, Finnick, Woman from Five, Johanna, Nel, Chaff, Katniss, and Peeta are all alive.**

**A short but important chapter. Johanna's here! Yay...! Oh, and guess what guys? I went to the movies the other day and saw the teaser for Catching Fire...so excited! Even though it won't be out until next year. :(**

**Tell me what you think!**


	52. CF: The Arena: Day Five

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **D**ay **F**ive

* * *

><p>"Get up."<p>

I open my eyes to find Katniss solemnly shaking my shoulder, an urgent frown on her face. With a gasp I jackknife into a sitting position, nearly bumping heads with her. "What? What is it?"

"We need to move," she says vaguely as she crawls toward Peeta. "I'll explain when everyone's awake. Get Johanna, will you?"

Johanna isn't happy about waking up, especially not when she learns that there is no immediate danger. "What's the deal, here? I just laid down."

"That is a good question," I say, turning my gaze to Katniss. "Everyone's up. Start talking. Why do we need to move?"

"I figured out why Wiress keeps saying 'tick, tock,'" Katniss begins.

Johanna throws her hands up in the air with exasperation. "Are you kidding me?! You woke us up because of that crazy - !"

"She isn't crazy! She's brilliant!" Katniss snaps. "Just listen to me, okay? Wiress is the only one who's figured it out, but she just can't spit it out."

"Apparently she's not the only one," Johanna mutters.

Katniss ignores her. "It's the arena. The arena is a clock. Each of the little wedges of land; they're spokes of a clock. There are twelve of them, and the traps within go off according to the time. It's a schedule. A clock. Tick, tock."

I have a feeling that she's added that last part just for Johanna's benefit. But we're all too busy trying to grasp the idea of an arena modeled after a clock for pointless bickering. It makes sense, what Katniss is saying, but it just seems so...different, I suppose, from usual. Gamemakers are all about tailoring their torture methods to the situation and the players. A clock just seems too restricted for them.

Then again, they did a lot of "tailoring" last year, and look how that turned out.

"Okay, if it is a clock, then we have time, right?" I say. Right now I can hear the pitter-patter of rain off in the distance; the blood-rain that Johanna and Nuts and Volts got stuck in. "Theoretically, if that's the case, then we have two hours before we really need to move. The fog and the monkeys, right?"

"Theoretically," Katniss admits. "But remember the wave, and how it affected us all the way over here? There's no guarantee that the barriers for each of the traps are so distinctly defined. It's all an estimate."

"We should keep moving, just to be safe," says Peeta.

"It makes sense," I admit, looking at Johanna pointedly. She rolls her eyes and wordlessly begins packing up her things.

I help Peeta get Beetee back into his jumpsuit, and then feed Wiress the last of the bread while Katniss checks her weapons and gathers up her own materials. Beetee moans beside Peeta, slowly coming conscious, a word balanced on his lips. "Wire."

Peeta assures him that Wiress is fine, but Beetee continues to object when we try to move him.

"Oh, I know what he wants," Johanna huffs, stomping across the beach until she comes across a cylindrical item we pulled from Beetee's jumpsuit when we washed him. "This worthless thing. It's some kind of wire or something. That's how he got cut. Running up to the Cornucopia to get this. I don't know what kind of weapon it's supposed to be. I guess you could pull off a piece and use it as a garrote or something. But really, can you imagine Beetee garroting somebody?"

"He won his Games with wire," Peeta says. "Setting up that electrical trap. It's the best weapon he could have."

Beetee, risking his life for some wire? Even if it was the only weapon he could use, I'm sure Beetee is smart enough to find some kind of substitute in the wild. And the cylinder is so small; how could he have known it was going to be at the Cornucopia?

Unless, of course, someone made sure he knew it would be.

Johanna's involved in this scheme with Haymitch. I thought that it was the same as me: to protect Katniss and Peeta. I assumed that she brought Nuts and Volts in order to gain Katniss's trust. But what if her job was to specifically bring Beetee to us? What if he's in on it too?

How much do they know?

"Seems like you'd have figured that out. Since you nicknamed him Volts and all," Katniss says. I can't tell if she's trying to insult Johanna, if she's defending Beetee, or if she's starting to get suspicious of us because of all these hints Johanna keeps dropping. Maybe a little of all three.

Johanna, apparently, thinks it's the first one. "Yeah, that was really stupid of me, wasn't it? I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were...what, again? Getting Mags killed off?"

My stomach leaps into my throat at her words. It's like Johanna has stabbed me in the chest. Katniss must have told her about Mags while they were on watch. Funny, I can't really see that conversation without screaming.

Logically, though, Johanna shouldn't be blaming Katniss for Mags's death. If anyone should be blamed, it should be me. Unless someone knew that I was going out of my way to help Katniss, even as far as sacrificing the woman who was like a mother to me.

_If Johanna keeps this up, Katniss will figure it out_, I think. _Or worse, the President_.

Katniss grips the knife in her hand so hard that her knuckles turn white. She looks like she wants nothing more than to stab Johanna.

"Go ahead," Johanna says, giving Katniss a challenging smirk. "Try it. I don't care if you are knocked up, I'll rip your throat out."

I have no doubts she would, too. Johanna's self-preservation and temper together have always superceded any other obligation.

"Maybe we all had better be careful where we step," I interject. I scoop the wire out of the sand and hand it off to Beetee. "There's your wire, Volts. Watch where you plug it."

Peeta picks up the now compliant tribute from District Three. He seems just as eager as I am to dissipate some of the tension between Johanna and Katniss. "Where to?"

"I'd like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we're right about the clock," I suggest. No one has any objections, so we walk down the nearest island until we arrive at the Cornucopia. There is no sign of life around the large golden horn, but we approach carefully just in case.

Peeta lays Beetee in the shade of the Cornucopia once we determine it safe. The injured man is pretty much fully conscious now, accessing his surroundings with blinking, attentive eyes. He sits up with Peeta's help, still clutching the wire. "Wiress!" he calls. She whips around like a jumpy bird and pads over to him obediently. He puts the wire in her hands carefully, like he's giving her a precious treasure, curling her fingers around it. "Clean it, will you?"

Wiress nods and skips over to the water's edge, dunking the spool in water while singing a nursery rhyme about a mouse running up a clock.

"Oh, not that song again! That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking," Johanna grumbles, plugging her ears.

Idly, I wonder if it was the song that brought the epiphany of the clock to Wiress, or vise-versa. Perhaps Wiress knew about the clock going in, and Haymitch figured that everyone would assume she was so smart she figured it out on her own. But how could Haymitch get a hold of that information? Surely only the Gamemakers would know it.

Wiress interrupts my reverie by standing up and pointing off into the distance. "Two," she declares, her eyes growing wide as she blinks at us expectantly. Where she points, the fog is curling around a patch of trees.

"Yes, look! Wiress is right," Katniss says. "It's two o'clock and the fog has started."

"Like clockwork. You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress," Peeta remarks kindly, eliciting a pleased smile from her. She goes back to singing and washing the wire.

"Oh, she's more than smart," Beetee pipes up. "She's intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else." He looks at Katniss and Peeta. "Like a canary in your coal mines."

"What's that?" I ask. I've never heard of a can-air-ee.

"It's a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there's bad air," Katniss explains.

"What's it do, die?" Johanna asks curiously. Apparently she's never heard of this either. I wonder how Beetee knows about it. Probably from a book.

"It stops singing first. That's when you should get out. But if the air's too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you." Katniss drops the subject and heads over to the weapons pile. Johanna and I shrug, following her.

I dig up a few more tridents to replace the ones I lost in the fog, as well as a net made of thick rope. Johanna gleefully pulls out a pair of lethal axes and practices with them, throwing them against the trunk of a tree until it seems like it might tip over. But, hey, whatever cools her down. Johanna's temper is a nasty thing.

Peeta and Katniss have their heads bent together, discussing something when Johanna and I return. They're writing something on a big flat leaf. I realize that it's a map of the arena; _lightning _in the twelve to one, _blood _from one to two, _fog _from two to three, _monkeys _from three to four, and _wave _from ten to eleven. Clever.

Katniss asks Johanna and Beetee if they noticed any of the other traps, but all they've been through is the blood. Katniss sighs, pursing her lips at the leaf. "I guess they could hold anything."

"I'm going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers' weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we'll stay clear of those," Peeta says, marking the wedges with the fog and wave traps. He sits back to inspect his work. "Well, it's a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway."

I have to agree. We know almost half of the tricks in the arena. At this point, our biggest concern are the Careers.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, Katniss goes stiff and whips around to Wiress, notching an arrow. We all turn and see Wiress collapse to the ground, a stripe of scarlet running across her throat. Behind her, soaking wet and holding a knife, is Gloss.

The arrow pierces his temple before I can even get my tridents into position. Cashmere emerges from the water, and Johanna wastes no time. She flings an ax, and the mark hits home, sinking into Cashmere's chest.

Brutus and Enobaria have also emerged. I call out to Peeta as I block a spear coming his way with my trident. I can't dodge Enobaria's knife because of it; the blade sinks into my thigh, sending sharp pain all the way up my torso and down my leg. The two of them duck behind the Cornucopia to avoid Katniss's arrows.

The cannon booms three times. We barely notice it as we race around the Cornucopia in pursuit of the tributes from District Two. Even the pain in my leg is a distant thing. Now, anyway.

We spot Brutus and Enobaria running down a sand strip when, suddenly, the ground jerks under my feet as though it has been pulled out from under me. I slam into the ground as the island begins to spin like a top, fast enough to send sand flying in every direction. I can feel myself being pulled outward, and I scramble for some purchase on the sand. It just shifts under my clawing fingers. I close my eyes against it, but it still infiltrates my mouth, ears, and nose.

Just as suddenly, we slam to a stop. I feel nauseated as I sit up, spitting sand from my mouth. Johanna, Peeta, and Katniss are in similar conditions. Enobaria and Brutus are nowhere to be seen. Wiress, Gloss, and Cashmere are floating in the water like seaweed pulled up after a thunderstorm.

"Where's Volts?" Johanna says. We all stand up and begin looking for him. In the distance, I see a tiny shape struggling in the water.

"Found him!" I call. After stripping off everything but a knife (just in case) I swim to go get him. He nearly slaps me in his desperation to get his arms around my neck. "Whoa, there, take it easy," I say. "Never on the first date, Volts."

He can't do anything but gurgle thickly. I grab him and do an awkward one-armed stroke back. I drag him ashore and give him some room as he coughs and snorts water out of his nose.

"Where's Katniss?" I ask. She's disappeared while I was gone. Mutely, Peeta points to something he's been watching in the distance. Wiress's body. Katniss is swimming away from it, just out of reach of the hovercraft that came to collect it.

"She went to go get the wire," Johanna explains.

Beetee doesn't say anything. He just attempts to clean his glasses with his wet sleeve and places them on his face.

Katniss comes back and places the wire in his lap before she grabs her weapons. He takes it in his hands, shiny and new, unraveling a piece. It's tiny and golden. There could be miles of it in the thick spool. Beetee closes his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the wire, his nose wrinkled in a peculiar but woefully familiar way.

Wiress. Blight. Mags. All gone.

Katniss strides across the island and embraces Peeta.

"Let's get off this stinking island," Johanna murmurs after a long pause. Before we go, I take off my undershirt and wrap it around the wound in my thigh. It's shallow and long, but not severe. I can still walk, even if it's a little painful. Anyway, if Beetee says he can walk, I certainly can.

"Where to now?" I ask.

"Twelve seems like a good place," Katniss responds. "It'll give us some peace and quiet for a while."

We all agree. I glance up at the sun. How much has it moved since I fell asleep at the monkeys? I decide it's been a few hours, and head off in that direction.

No one follows me. Everyone's going in a different direction, in fact.

"Twelve o'clock, right?" Peeta says when we all freeze upon this realization. "The tail points at twelve."

"Before they spun us. I was judging by the sun," I say.

"The sun only tells you it's going on four, Finnick," says Katniss, raising an eyebrow.

"I think Katniss's point is knowing the time doesn't mean you necessarily know where four is on the clock. You might have a general idea of the direction. Unless you consider that they may have shifted the outer ring of the jungle as well," Beetee says.

Katniss nods. "Yes, so any one of these paths could lead to twelve o'clock."

Okay. So maybe the Gamemakers have a little more freedom than I thought.

We circle around the island, looking for a sign, but the jungle looks eerily similar. There's a tall tree in each sector, so looking for twelve won't do any good, and Johanna's idea of looking for Brutus and Enobaria's tracks comes up unsuccessful. They've been washed away.

"We're stuck," I sigh, looking around hopelessly. "We have no idea where anything is anymore."

"I should have never mentioned the clock," Katniss groans. "Now they've taken that advantage away as well."

I'm not sure if she means Enobaria and Brutus, or the Gamemakers.

"Only temporarily," Beetee says optimistically. "At ten, we'll see the wave again and be back on track."

"Yes, they can't reassign the whole arena," Peeta agrees.

"It doesn't matter. You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless," Johanna points out, giving Katniss an irritated look. Is it just me, or was that some kind of backhanded way of cheering Katniss up? "Come on, I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?"

"That one," Peeta suggests, pointing at the strip of island where the Cornucopia's tail is pointing. We all decide to take it, looking for clues of what might be awaiting us. _Just don't be the fog_, I think desperately, looking at my leg. _Anything but the fog_.

But it's not the fog. The fog hour had been going on when we left; by now, it should be the monkeys' time to shine, which Peeta helpfully points out. "I don't see any of them in here," he says. "I'm going to try to tap a tree."

"No, it's my turn," I say. We can't have Peeta wandering around in the jungle, not after what happened last time.

"I'll at least watch your back."

"Katniss can do that," Johanna says. She pulls a leaf from a tree. "We need you to make another map. The other washed away."

I don't really want Katniss in the jungle either, but I suppose she can handle herself better than Peeta. She looks suspicious at first, but reluctantly agrees to go with me, looking back at Johanna and Peeta and Beetee squatting over the leaf.

We get a few yards away before we find a good tree. I begin chipping away with a knife while Katniss stands behind me, arrow notched but relaxed at her side. When the hole is big enough, I turn around and ask her for the spile. She nods and hands it over.

That's when I hear the scream.

It doesn't sound like Johanna or Enobaria. The voice is too high-pitched; maybe it's an animal call or something that just sounds like a scream.

The spile falls from Katniss's hand and lands on the ground with an ominous thunk.

I look up at her. She is frozen, her eyes wide and dilated, face as pale as a ghost. And then, without further warning, she turns around and darts into the rainforest. I can only gape after her for a moment before I scramble to my feet and run after her. "Katniss! Hey, what are you doing?! Katniss!"

Usually I'd be able to catch up with her, but my wound causes seering pain with every step, impeding my stride. Katniss runs like the devil is at her heels, crashing through the foliage. She's screaming something, but I can't make out what it is. What is wrong with her?

I lose sight of her and have to follow the sound of her voice. Eventually even that stops and I resort to following the path she's left. The screaming sound cuts off abruptly.

I crash into a clearing and see Katniss cleaning an arrow with some moss. She's shot something. She's shaking violently, her face still impossibly pale, her eyes haunted and reeling. "Katniss?"

"It's okay. I'm okay," she pants. She doesn't look okay. The vines and creepers have cut her face and hands, and the grotesque green goo is peeling from her like decaying flesh. "I thought I heard my sister, but - "

That's when I hear it.

The scream.

_Her_ scream.

It's like the world stops around me. Nothing is there, not Katniss, not the jungle, just that horrible, horrible sound coming from somewhere in the distance. Too far. Too close. A sound that should never exist.

I don't realize my feet have started moving until a sharp branch hits my face, slicing open my cheek. Still, I don't stop. How can I stop when they have her?

Annie.

"Annie!" She screams again, a scream of pure fear and terror. A sound that not even her worst nightmares ever produced. It transforms into a choking sob that is one hundred times worse, it's so hopeless and lost. I think she says my name. "Annie! I'm coming!"

The screaming continues. I find the source of it; in a tree. They have her in that tree somewhere, and they're doing awful things to her. What are they doing to her? What are they doing? "Annie!" I try to climb the tree, but I can only get halfway up and the branches break from under me. I hit the ground with a thud, the air rushing out of my lungs. I've never been good at scaling trees. That's always been Annie.

When I catch my breath, her name is on my lips. "Annie!" I scramble out of the dirt and continue to fruitlessly jump, climb, claw my way up the tree, up the bare rubbery trunk. How did she get here? Why did they bring her? "Annie!" They can't touch her. Just leave her alone! How do I get them to stop? "Annie!"

And then, miraculously, the screaming stops. A black thing lands at my feet.

I pick it up and inspect it. It's a jabberjay. A mutt. Making those noises.

That's what Katniss tells me when she hops down from the adjacent tree. "They're playing a trick on us," she says soothingly. "It's not real. It's not your...Annie."

"No, it's not Annie," I murmur. I drop the jabberjay on the ground, kicking the horrendous thing away. "But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?"

"Oh, Finnick," Katniss hisses, her eyes as wide as saucers. "You don't think...?"

"Yes, I do. That's exactly what I think." And how much worse is it now that I'm thinking? They have her tied up in some facility somewhere, getting these noises from her, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. I'm powerless.

"Katniss? Come on, we've got to get out of here," I say as she sinks to the ground. Another scream starts up, this time a young man's. Katniss bristles, but I grab her arm before she can take off again. "No. It's not him." I can't even begin to imagine who he is, but Katniss is still struggling to get to him. "We're getting out of here! It's not him, Katniss! It's a mutt! Come on!"

I grab her and start running, running away before Annie's start up again. Who else can they play? Everyone else I loved is dead. Annie is the only important thing, and she might even be dead now. Who knows how long ago they got these noises? Where was I?

I wasn't where I was supposed to be.

I'm so focused on dragging Katniss back and ignoring the screaming that I don't notice Johanna and Peeta until last moment. They must be at the edge of the trap. If I could just escape, if I could just -

And then I run into it, the transparent wall. Blinding pain shoots in front of my eyes, and I hear a crack. Warm blood gushes down my face.

Johanna looks at me hopelessly, her face drawn into a frown. She beats the wall with her fist to demonstrate, her lips moving, and that's when I realize: there's no escape. I'm stuck in this hell until time's up.

A chill runs down my spine when I hear _her _again. It. The monster. The monsters that are torturing her. No, no no no. Annie. Annie Annie Annie Annie...

I curl up on the ground and press my hands to my ears, trying to block it out. But it leaches through like poison, slithering through my fingers and beating my heart with a club. I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. It only provides a dark canvas for my imagination to paint gruesome depictions of what they're doing to her. I look at the trees, at the leaves, at anything that will distract me from it. Nothing does.

I look at Johanna, hitting the wall with her ax again and again. It doesn't work. She throws it to the ground in frustration and kneels down beside me, urging me to look at her, pointing to her face. I can see her lips forming the words: _Just look at me, Finnick, it's okay, just look at me_...

Eventually I can't see anything. I'm looking at Johanna, but I don't _see _her. I see faces. Other faces. Annie is gone, Mags is gone; I couldn't protect anybody. Not even the people most important to me. Katniss is going to die, and so is Peeta, and Johanna. They're going to die like Annie and Mags and Spring and Aurora and my father...

I want to die. I want to be with them, where ever they are. They have to be somewhere, don't they? They can't just be _gone_. She just can't be _gone_.

Her voice fades away like a star in the presence of the dawn. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I know that it's over. The torture is over. The hour is up.

Johanna pries my hands away from my ears with more tenderness than I've ever seen her display. "It's done, Finnick. It's over," she tells me. I bunch my hands into fists, jerking them away from her touch, curling tighter into a ball like I can hold myself together that way.

"Finnick," she snaps. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

I think I said something similar to Katniss. Silently I let her take my hand and pull me off the ground. She guides me to where Peeta his holding Katniss in his arms, coaxing her gently.

" - that wasn't Prim's voice," he's telling her. "Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something that distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying."

"No, they were torturing her," Katniss sobs. "She's probably dead."

"Katniss, Prim isn't dead. How could they kill Prim? We're almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?"

"Seven more of us die..."

"No, back home. What happens when they reach the final eight tributes in the Games? What happens? At the final eight?"

"At the final eight?" Katniss says slowly. "They interview your family and friends back home."

"That's right. They interview your family and friends. And can they do that if they've killed them all?"

"No?"

"No," I whisper. They can't. But would they interview Annie?

"No," Peeta confirms. "That's how we know Prim's alive. She'll be the first one they interview, won't she? First Prim, then your mother, your cousin Gale, Madge...It was a trick, Katniss. A horrible one. But we're the only ones who can be hurt by it. We're the ones in the Games. Not them."

That's not true. People are hurt outside of the Games all the time. But like this? Are they hurt like this?

"You really believe that?" Katniss says.

"I really do."

Katniss turns to me, her eyes wide like a childs. I imagine I look similar. We're both children, grasping for that fairy tale that fuels our hope of magic and miracles. Without it, there is no more joy in anything. "Do you believe it, Finnick?"

"It could be true. I don't know." I turn to Beetee. He knows a lot more than all of us. "Could they do that, Beetee? Take someone's voice and make it...?"

"Oh, yes. It's not even that difficult, Finnick. Our children learn a similar technique in school," Beetee explains.

I wonder why they would teach that to children.

"Of course Peeta's right," Johanna steps in. "The whole country adores Katniss's little sister. If they really killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands. Don't want that, do they?" She looks up at the sky, sneering. "Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!"

We all just gape at her. Because who is crazy enough to say something like that?

"I'm getting water," she declares, snatching shells from the beach and heading back into the jungle for the spile. Katniss gasps and grabs her arm with an iron grip, looking into her eyes anxiously. "Don't go in there. The birds - "

"They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love," Johanna snaps, shaking Katniss off of her as she marches fearlessly into the jungle.

I curl up into a ball and wait for her to come back. Is that the price of immunity? Losing everyone you love?

I'm pretty close to it, then.

_Annie_, I think, closing my eyes. _I hope you're safe. I hope you're not watching this. Please, please be safe_.

"I need to swim," I say abruptly. I ditch all of my gear and dive into the ocean, doing laps until I can't think anymore, until there's nothing but the pumping of muscle and breathing. Stroke, breathe, kick, kick, ow...

My wound starts bleeding again, but I still don't stop until I hear the cannon boom. When I pull myself out of the water and onto the beach with the others, they are watching a hovercraft recover the remains of some poor tribute from the six to seven o'clock zone. The metal claw dips back into the jungle several times, pulling out dismembered limbs and chunks of flesh. Note to self: avoid six o'clock entirely.

I weave another basket to get my mind off things while Peeta revises the map, adding the jabberjays and the beast to it. Johanna comes over and sits beside me, watching my fingers fly over the long blades of grass, bending them into something practical.

"You've got to show me how to do that one day," she remarks, taking three extra blades and making a simple braid with them.

"It takes some practice," I say, ignoring the fact that there might not be a _one day_ for me to teach her. "Mags was always better at it, before her arthritis set in. She could make hammocks no problem. She made the most comfortable hammocks. She would just give them away to people. Mags didn't ever charge anyone for anything."

Johanna touches my arm. "I'm sorry. Katniss told me what happened."

"I figured from what you said to her earlier."

"That..." Johanna scowls at my accusatory tone, but struggles to come up with an excuse for her slip. Eventually she blames her temper and gets up, brushing sand off of her legs. I catch a few fish after she leaves, and bring them to Katniss to help prepare. Silently we clean them and decide not to risk a fire or another trip into the jungle and just eat them raw.

As we're settling down, the anthem plays and the faces come up in the sky. Cashmere and Gloss are the first, and although I never had a particular liking for them, I feel some remorse. We were never on good terms, not since Annie's Hunger Games. They never, ever forgave me for Opal, whom they'd trained for the Games themselves. He was their protegé. I could never convince them that the dam's collapse was an accident.

Wiress is next. Even in her picture she seems a bit lost, a bit baffled by everything. I remember how she used to start sentences and just leave them off, so deep in her own thoughts. She always reminded me of Annie because of this. Annie, when she leaves for a journey in the depths of her haunted mind, can never answer a question or finish a sentence.

The next picture is the one that hits me the hardest. Mags. Her death was something that has always been a dark concern in the back of my brain ever since her stroke, but I never thought that I'd see her face plastered up there in the sky. In a way, though, her blank, gumless photograph is comforting, her lily pad eyes passing through me one last time. The big orb of her picture outshines the moon.

The woman from District Five comes next. I don't have many memories of her; she was older, and didn't participate much in the Games after I won. The old morphling from Six who sacrificed her life for Peeta shows up. I wish I knew how to feel about her death. All that comes up is a fleeting sense of overwhelming guilt, but I felt that when I saw her alive.

The man from Ditrict Ten is last, and then the sky goes dark. It occurs to me that this is only the second time they've shown faces, meaning it has really only been two days. It feels like so much more. I thought we'd been here longer.

"They're really burning through us," Johanna says, pulling us out of our own thoughts.

"Who's left? Besides us five and District Two?" I ask.

"Chaff," says Peeta without hesitation.

"Of course," I say dryly. "How could I have forgotten about Chaff?"

Just as the words leave my mouth, a silver parachute floats down toward us. I scramble to get it. Bread. More bread. Not salty, green bread from my district, but small square rolls.

"These are from your district, right, Beetee?" Peeta inquires. A baker's son, he has an eye for spotting different types of bread.

"Yes, from District Three," Beetee responds. He gives me a look. "How many are there?"

Something in his tone alerts me. Beetee knows about the bread too. I count each little roll, double checking just to be sure. "Twenty-four."

"An even two dozen, then?"

"Twenty-four on the nose," I confirm. I look to the rest of the group before anyone can notice our strange fascination with the amount of bread. "How should we divide them?"

"Let's each have three, and whoever is still alive at breakfast can take a vote on the rest," Johanna says jokingly. Only Katniss laughs, earning the smallest of smiles from her rival. And, seeing no better way to split it, I pass out triples of rolls to everyone and save the remaining eight for the morning.

We wait for the wave to crash down and recede before we make camp for at least the next few hours. Katniss and Peeta volunteer for first watch. I'm utterly exhausted, but after laying out my grass mat between Johanna and Beetee it takes me several moments to will my eyes closed.

I tell myself that my dreams can't be any worse than my reality, and I shudder when I realize that it might just be the truth.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Cashmere, Gloss, Wiress, Woman from Five, and Man from Ten.<strong>

**Recap: Brutus, Enobaria, Beetee, Finnick, Johanna, Chaff, Katniss, and Peeta are all alive.**

**Happy belated holidays, guys! Extra long chapter for the extra long wait! Sorry, I couldn't get to my computer for a few days since I was traveling over break. Family obligations and all. Yeesh.**

**It's the New Years Eve of 2012! It's been a really successful year. I mean, come on...we survived an apocalypse. I'd say that's pretty impressive. My resolution for 2013 is to finish _Salt and Sunshine _and the rest of my ongoing projects, start on some new stuff, improve on my writing, and own a narwhal. Anyone want to share theirs? I'd love to hear (um, read?) them!**


	53. CF: The Arena: Winners

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **A**rena - **W**inners

* * *

><p>My nightmares are full of Annie. I don't clearly remember them when I wake up, but I know they were compiled of horrendous film clips casting her as the tragic star. When the thunder wakes me up, I'm almost glad; I feel cold in my middle, like someone has filled me up with ice. Fear. I know that I won't go back to sleep.<p>

I turn to Katniss and Peeta, who are sitting a bit away, on watch. "I can't sleep anymore. One of you go and rest." Then I notice their faces, blinking wide with surprise, lips slightly parted and flushed. They're wrapped around each other, Katniss's arms around his neck, twined in his hair, Peeta grasping her waist. Oh. Awkward. "Or both of you," I amend. "I can watch alone."

"It's too dangerous," Peeta says, letting go and gently extracting her hands. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." She lets him lead her over to the mats. I step away to give them their privacy, stretching my limbs. So, I guess that the whole 'star-crossed lovers' bit isn't _entirely _fictious. I've known since the episode with the force field that Katniss cared greatly for Peeta on some level, but it still seems like a stretch that they were actually an item outside the cameras. Unless that was for the benefit of the crowd, which isn't likely. Peeta doesn't seem like that kind of guy. He's not like me.

Though I still doubt that Katniss is pregnant.

Peeta joins me a few minutes later, stretching out on the sand. We sit in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the jungle and watching the waves lap on the beach. Eventually the silence is about to drive me insane, so I take a stab at conversation that hopefully won't get me punched. "Hey, uh, sorry about...that. If I'd realized what you were doing, I'd have pretended to go back asleep."

"No worries," says Peeta with a good-natured shrug. "Better you did, anyway. We should have been doing our job. And I'm not comfortable with giving the audience _too _much of a show."

That surely got some chuckles out of the crowd, if they're even showing this. Peeta is good with light-hearted banter. He can make people laugh, make them forget for a moment about their troubles. Maybe that's why he's so good with Katniss. She could stand to laugh more.

There's another extensive pause, but it feels more companionable. Next time it's Peeta who breaks the silence. "Stop me if you don't want to talk about it," Peeta says, which is never a good way to begin a conversation, "but I didn't ever get the chance to give my condolences about Mags. She was a good person, from what I could tell."

"She was the best," I say, swallowing a lump in my throat. "She was my mentor. I was only fourteen when I won my Games, and when I got back she took on the responsibilities of raising me. It couldn't have been easy, but she took care of all of us."

Thankfully, Peeta doesn't ask about my parents. But he does direct the conversation into dangerous waters. "That's something I don't understand," he says slowly. "When we were running in the fog...you let her go so you could carry me. Why didn't you just leave me there? We barely know each other, and she...she was everything to you."

"I didn't have a choice," I rasp. "Katniss would have tried to kill me, and I wouldn't have been able to fight her off. We all would have died. And then...Mags, she wanted to. In her eyes, she'd run her coarse. We knew going in that she wouldn't make it. I was the only reason she was clinging to life. I was the one making her live. Even...even if I'd kept her in my arms and left you, she would never have forgiven me." I barely manage to choke down a sob. My eyes are burning. "It would have been selfish of me to prevent her from dying on her own terms. With dignity. Like she deserved. She embraced death because she knew that she was saving a life, and I couldn't take that away from her."

Peeta stays silent. It's not the whole truth, but it's enough to convince anyone who is listening. The mission means almost nothing in that moment. It is a stain on the clean, pure slate of Mags's noble intentions.

"I'm sorry," Peeta whispers. I think it's the most sincere apology I've ever heard. "That was out of line. I shouldn't have questioned her motives...or yours."

"You can't help it," I say. "It's just what the Hunger Games do to us."

Peeta's face goes frighteningly hard and cold. I know I have said something wrong, but I can't find it in myself to care. It's not my fault the kid has trouble stomaching the truth.

We devote our attention to keeping guard until dawn breaks over the water. I feel so heartsick in that moment that I might just throw up. Every inch of me yearns to feel the dangerous, enticing fingers of the undersea current drag me away from my troubles, to mold the wet sand under my hands, to hear Annie's laugh and see her smile. Stars in heaven, what I wouldn't give just to see Annie smile again.

Johanna is the next to wake up. She offers to trade positions with Peeta, but he says he's not tired. Maybe he doesn't want Johanna and me alone together? I push the thought out of my mind. Katniss is the suspicious one, not Peeta. Or so I thought.

His inquisition about the circumstances of Mags's death is leading me to believe that maybe Peeta isn't quite as naive as he seems. He's still good, I think, sincere to his very core, but naive? Maybe I'm underestimating him.

Or maybe Katniss just planted the idea in his mind.

Whatever the reason, I need to tread carefully. If either one of them gets spooked and they leave, it's all over. I have a feeling that even I won't be able to find them if they don't want to be found. If they go off on their own, they could very well die at the hands of another tribute, or from some mean trick of the Games.

Beetee shuffles over to us after that, looking much better now that he's gotten food and rest. He still holds the coil of wire possessively in his hands.

Katniss wakes up just as the parachute floats down, carrying the new shipment of bread. Again, twenty-four rolls from District Three. Has there been a setback? Why has the time not changed? Perhaps Haymitch is telling us not to be fooled; a full day has not passed in the outside world just because the sun has gone down and come up in the arena.

We each take five rolls for breakfast, leaving eight extra. Eight is not divisible by five. But it is divisible by four.

Katniss pulls Peeta into the water for swimming lessons. "Just in case," she says. Of what, I don't ask. Drowning is the least of Peeta's worries, but I imagine that boredom is their main motivation. We still have several hours until we need to switch beaches, and we're all feeling the lull in activity. I weave more mats and baskets, Beetee winds and unravels his wire, and Johanna watches Katniss and Peeta suspiciously.

She plops down beside me eventually. "Do you think it's a good idea to leave them out there alone?" she asks, although she takes her eyes off of them as she says it. Apparently talking about the tributes from District Twelve is more interesting than observing them.

"I don't see why not," I say nonchalantly. "Katniss is pregnant, Jo. The chaperoning ship has sailed. Although I applaud your maternal concern for Katniss's virtue."

"This has nothing to do with her nonexistent virtue," Johanna snaps. "Aren't you worried they're going to take off? And maybe take one of us down while they're at it?"

"They're not going to swim away in broad daylight. They're smarter than that. They know I can catch them and do what I do to deserters. If they're not with us, they're against us."

"No, but they could be _planning _something. Did that ever cross your mind, genius?"

I scratch my temple. Flakes of the green crust from the goo come off, which was not my desired effect. Ew. "Gee, planning? What is this 'planning' of which you speak?"

This only earns me a jab in the gut and a furious, "Be serious for once!"

"It would be unwise for Katniss and Peeta to embark on their own at this moment," Beetee pipes up, still focused on his wire. "While Enobaria and Brutus are out there, I mean. Katniss and Peeta are no match for those two. If they get cornered, they're done. Surely one of them will realize that and wait until the Careers are eliminated, at the very least."

"You see?" I tell Johanna. "My train of thought exactly."

My train of thought was actually a gut feeling, of course, but Beetee's explanation is much more convincing than that. Johanna just scoffs and tosses her head, storming away to go take a nap. She takes my completed mat with her.

I turn to Beetee and shake my head. "Chicks, man. Am I right?"

Beetee gives me a look that clearly indicates the topic I've breached is completely unworthy of attention from his superior, analytical mind. I shoot him my most charismatic grin, probably still marred by the layer of green crust on my skin.

"Hey, Finnick!" Katniss calls from the water, waving me over. "Come on in! We figured out how to make you pretty again!"

Eager, I wade into the water and join Peeta and Katniss as they rub down their skin with wet, gritty sand. It's different from the sharp, large grains of sand back home. This is finer, powdery, missing the little traces of broken seashells and Annie's favorite, sea glass.

It still gets the job done. By the time we swim back to shore, we're all pink and smooth like newborn babies instead of green and flaky like decaying corpses. We still apply another layer of medicine after we're dry, much to my distaste, but it's not nearly as bad. At least I'm not peeling much anymore.

"Everyone," Beetee announces. "I need to talk with you. I have a plan for our next coarse of action. We need to go on the offensive. I think we can all agree that our next job is to kill Brutus and Enobaria. I doubt they'll attack us openly again, since they're so outnumbered. We could track them down, I suppose, but it's dangerous, exhausting work."

"Do you think they've figured out the clock?" Katniss inquires.

"If they haven't, they'll figure it out soon enough. Perhaps not as specifically as we have. But they must know that at least some of the zones are wired for attacks and that they're reoccurring in a circular fashion. Also, the fact that our last fight was cut off by Gamemaker intervention will not have gone unnoticed by them. We know it was an attempt to disorient us, but they must be asking themselves why it was done, and this, too, may lead them to the realization that the arena's a clock. So I think our best bet will be setting our own trap."

"Wait, let me get Johanna up," I suggest. "She'll be rabid if she thinks she missed something this important."

She's rabid when I wake her up, anyway, but once I tell her that we're going offensive she perks right up and joins us to listen to Beetee's plan. He draws a circle with twelve sectors in the sand, a crude version of Peeta's leaf-map. "If you were Brutus and Enobaria, knowing what you do now about the jungle, where would you feel safest?"

"Where we are now," Peeta answers. "On the beach. It's the safest place."

"So why aren't they on the beach?"

"Because we're here," Johanna huffs. I can imagine her as a child in school, tapping her foot impatiently at her desk while she waited for slower students to catch up to her. She was probably a big bully back then, too.

"Exactly," Beetee continues, unperturbed. "We're here, claiming the beach. Now where would you go?"

"I'd hide just at the edge of the jungle so I could escape if an attack came," Katniss reasons. "And so I could spy on us."

"Also to eat," I add, acutely aware that I am the only one who has not contributed anything to the discussion. "The jungle's full of strange creatures and plants, but by watching us, I'd know the seafood's safe."

"Yes, good. You do see," Beetee praises with a scholarly smile. I bet he teaches a lot of the kids back in District Three. He seems really good at it. "Now, here's what I propose: a twelve o'clock strike. What happens exactly at noon and at midnight?"

"The lightning bolt hits the tree," says Katniss.

"Yes. So what I'm suggesting is that after the bolt hits at noon, but before it hits at midnight, we run my wire from that tree all the way down into the saltwater, which is, of course, highly conductive. When the bolt strikes, the electricity will travel down the wire and into not only the water but also the surrounding beach, which will still be damp from the ten o'clock wave. Anyone in contact with those surfaces at that moment will be electrocuted."

We all process the information silently. I can't get the image of Enobaria and Brutus spasming in the water, riddled with bolts of yellow lightning, out of my head. This is probably not at all what electrocution looks like, but I only have my imagination to supplement me.

"Will that really be able to conduct that much power, Beetee?" Peeta asks uncertainly, taking the wire in his fingers. "It looks so fragile, like it would just burn up."

"Oh, it will. But not until the current has passed through it. It will act something like a fuse, in fact. Except the electricity will travel along it," Beetee says.

Great. An electric bomb.

"How do you know?" Johanna challenges aggressively.

"Because I invented it," Beetee says, as if this should be obvious. "It's not actually wire in the usual sense. Nor is the lightning natural lightning or the tree a real tree. It would be destroyed by now, wouldn't it?"

"...Yes." Ha. Johanna's own knowledge turned against her. She's grown up around trees; she knows how they act, just like I know the ocean, or Katniss knows the mines, or Peeta knows bread, or Beetee knows...well, everything, apparently.

"Don't worry about the wire," Beetee assures. "It will do just what I say."

"And where will we be when this happens?" I ask. Suddenly five more people are spasming with yellow bolts of electricity constricting around them in my mind.

"Far enough up the jungle to be safe."

"The Careers will be safe, too, then, unless they're in the vicinity of the water," Katniss points out.

"That's right," Beetee says.

Now I'm confused, but it seems like Peeta has a grasp on things. "All the seafood will be cooked," he says.

"Probably more than cooked," Beetee confirms. "We will likely be eliminating that as a food source for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?"

"Yes. Nuts and rats. And we have sponsors."

"Well, then, I don't see that as a problem," Beetee says. "But as we are allies and this will require all of our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you four."

There. Beetee is a certified genius. Not only has he concocted a way to speed up the Games and give us a huge advantage, he's also found a contract for us to sign to ensure that none of us panic and scatter as the numbers dwindle down.

"Why not?" Katniss says, slapping her hands together. "If it fails, there's no harm done. If it works, there's a decent chance we'll kill them. And even if we don't and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source, too."

"I say we try it," Peeta seconds. "Katniss is right."

I glance at Johanna, who is scowling in contemplation. I raise my eyebrows. _Isn't this what you wanted? _I think at her. _Offensive? A way to make sure Peeta and Katniss don't abandon us? Why are you taking so long to answer?_

"All right," she says, exasperated. "It's better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they'll figure out our plan, since we can barely understand it ourselves."

"Great," Beetee says. "Now, I'd like to inspect the material of the tree before we rig it."

"It's about nine o'clock in the morning, I'd say," Katniss judges, squinting at the sun. "We have time to do that. And we have to leave soon anyway."

We pack up and walk over to the beach beside the lightning tree and dive into the jungle. Johanna leads while Peeta and I take turns carrying Beetee, who is too weak to walk uphill, and Katniss takes up the rear. When we stop to trade Beetee, a thought occurs to me as I hand him off to Peeta. "You should take the lead," I tell Katniss. Johanna looks insulted, so I fill her and Beetee in on the force-field incident. "Katniss can hear the force field."

"Hear it?" Beetee asks skeptically.

"Only with the ear the Capitol reconstructed," she explains.

Beetee takes a moment to wipe fog from his glasses. "Then by all means, let Katniss go first. Force fields are nothing to play around with." He replaces them and gives Katniss a fleeting look that I can't decipher before letting Peeta hoist him onto his back.

After a bit of intense listening Katniss tells us that we should be safe from the force field as long as we stay below the obvious towering beacon of the lightning tree. Once we get to our destination, we assign jobs. I guard Beetee while Johanna taps for water and Peeta and Katniss get food. If only the Hunger Games could always be like this. Together we are an efficient, well-oiled machine. If the circumstances were normal, though, we would be at each others throat by now. If not for Haymitch, would I have even partnered up with Katniss? Or would I have joined the Careers? It would have been a difficult decision after watching Katniss shoot that first time. I think I would have still teamed up with her had the occasion arose. Cashmere and Gloss would never have wanted me or Mags on their team, so joining the Careers wouldn't have been an option. I would have set out for Johanna first, though.

Beetee's inspection takes longer than I thought it would. He mumbles under his breath a lot, taking measurements, poking and prodding at things, testing the dirt in his hands, snapping off bark and throwing it at the force field even. Curiously I try to listen to his observations, but I don't understand a word. I think he's speaking a different language.

Eventually a clicking sound from the eleven o'clock zone picks up, drowning out almost every other noise. We debate on what it might be, and decide on some kind of insect with pinchers. It brings to mind the leeches that devoured Eleanor and Spring. A shudder runs down my spine.

"We should get out of here, anyway," Johanna says as the clicking reaches a crescendo. "There's less than an hour before the lightning strikes."

We stop at the next lightning tree in the one o'clock blood-rain section, settling down to drink the water Johanna tapped and eat the food Peeta and Katniss prepared. Roasted rat and foraged nuts. We don't touch the rolls.

"Katniss," Beetee says as the clicking dies down, "will you climb that tree and watch the lightning strike the other one? Tell me what you see."

Katniss obliges, removing some of her gear and nimbly scaling the tree like a squirrel. She climbs high enough to make me nervous. The clicking stops and we all see the bright light of the lightning as it strikes the tree, and the thunder that accompanies it. After a moment Katniss drops down and reports her findings to Beetee. He nods and goes back into deep, silent thought.

After that we go back to the ten o'clock beach, which is wet and smoothed by the giant wave. Beetee goes right to work with his wire while the rest of us keep watch, taking turns napping in the shade of the jungle. Eventually we stomach all the sleep we can handle and decide to splurge on seafood, since it will be gone by morning. It makes me a bit sad to think of all the dead, burned fish floating belly-up on the surface of the water, but I push it out of my mind.

It's my turn to teach. I show my three pupils how to spear fish and gather shellfish. Eventually they even graduate to diving for oysters. Katniss and are the best at this, since Johanna's swimming skills are elementary and Peeta can barely keep afloat. Johanna mainly dips her toes, letting the waves lap over her small feet, and Peeta cracks the shells of the oysters and clams. He finds a pearl in one, and tries to feed me some idiocy about coal turning in to pearls if put under pressure. I assure him that it doesn't, wondering where on earth he got that misinformation (pearls, of course, only come from oysters), while Katniss cracks up beside him.

As we're getting ready to eat, another bread message floats down. The same twenty-four rolls from District Three. Thirty-two in all. We each take five, leaving seven more. Indivisible.

We gorge ourselves on seafood and rolls and cocktail sauce that Haymitch also sent, until we're uncomfortably full. Even Beetee takes a break from his wire to partake in the merriment. After we're done eating, we throw the remaining food back in the ocean. It won't stay fresh, and we don't want the Careers getting to it. Beetee goes back to his wire, while the rest of us wait. Peeta and Katniss have a romantic moment or something by the shore, while Johanna and I are splayed out on the beach watching them.

"Do you think it's real?" Johanna asks. "The whole star-crossed lovers thing?"

I remember how Katniss freaked out when Peeta almost died, of when I caught them kissing on the beach last night, of Peeta giving Katniss the pearl. "Yes," I respond.

Johanna doesn't say anything else. She just rolls over on her side with her back to me. I must have given the wrong answer.

The sun sinks and the anthem rings, but there's no faces in the sky tonight. The audience will be getting restless. I wonder if the Gamemakers will hold out long enough to see if Beetee's plan really works. I hope they do. At this point, any wild cards could end up ruining Haymitch's scheme, with so few of us left in the arena. Whatever Haymitch's scheme is. I've yet to figure it out.

At around nine o'clock, judging by the sun, we leave the camp and hike up to the twelve o'clock tree with the bright silver moon guiding us.

"Finnick," Beetee says when we arrive at the tree, "will you help me set this up? Take this wire and tie it to that branch, will you?" He cuts off about twenty yards of the golden wire and hands it to me, gesturing to a thick branch beside the tree. After that's done, he orders me to stand on the other side of the tree and help him wrap the wire around the trunk by passing it back and forth between us. Eventually an intricate pattern emerges in the criss-crossed wire. It's kind of interesting and beautiful, like a peculiar work of art.

After about an hour of this, the we hear the big wave crash on the shore. Beetee tells me to stop winding the wire. "Here's the rest of the plan," he says. "Johanna and Katniss, since Finnick's leg is hurt, you two are the fastest and the quietest. I want you to take this spool and unwind it until you get to the beach. Then I want you to throw the spool and the rest of the wire into the water, making sure it sinks. After that, run directly back into the jungle at the rendezvous. If you leave right now you'll be able to make it to safety before the lightning strikes."

"I want to go with them as guard," Peeta protests.

"You're too slow," Beetee says bluntly. "Besides, I'll need you on this end. Katniss will guard. There's no time to debate this, I'm sorry. If the girls are to get out of there alive, they need to move now." He hands Johanna the spool, peering at her over the rim of his glasses. She nods as she accepts it.

Katniss looks a little skeptical, but she promises Peeta that it's okay. "We'll just drop the coil and come straight back up."

"Not into the lightning zone. Head for the tree in the one-to-two o'clock sector," Beetee orders. "If you're running out of time, move over one more. Don't even think about going back on the beach, though, until I can assess the damage."

Katniss says goodbye to Peeta with a kiss, promising to see him at midnight. Then she turns to Johanna and they walk off into the jungle, leaving a glittering line of gold thread behind them.

"What now?" I ask.

Beetee shrugs. "We wait."

"Shouldn't we be getting out of here?" Peeta says.

"Not yet. We'll wait a while, and then make our way back."

This doesn't make any sense to me at all, considering how urgently he conveyed his message to Katniss and Johanna. Get to safety, don't come back to this tree. Well, now all three of us are sitting ducks here. There's something fishy happening.

"Peeta," Beetee says suddenly, "give me your knife."

Peeta narrows his eyes at him. He is obviously as suspicious as I am. He grips the knife harder in his hands, almost protectively. As if Beetee could take him down. "...No," he says hesitantly. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

Beetee heaves an exasperated sigh, then gives Peeta the same look he gave Johanna as he passed her the spool of wire. "It's important. I need to make some adjustments to the tree."

"I don't believe you," Peeta says.

Beetee turns his gaze to me. His eyes tell me everything I need to know. It's time. It's happening now. "Just do it, Peeta," I say as casually as I can. "Beetee knows what he's doing."

"Why would he wait until now to change something?"

"I don't know, but if I thought he was going to hurt Johanna, do you think I'd support him?"

Peeta considers this. "I guess you're right. Just paranoid. Stress is running high with this crazy plan of yours, Volts." And then he surrenders the knife.

Beetee doesn't waste any time. He takes the knife and swiftly severs the wire connecting Johanna and Katniss to the tree. Before Peeta and I have even processed this, he's digging the knife into his forearm and twisting it around.

Peeta gets the words out first. "What are you _doing_?!"

"Finnick, give me your arm," Beetee says in such a commanding voice that I do it without question. He slices me with the knife, eliciting a hiss, but I realize what he's doing before I pull away. He's digging out the tracker in my arm.

He succeeds and turns to Peeta. "You too."

Peeta blinks at him in astonishment exactly one time before he wheels around and begins sprinting down the hill, into the jungle, the fastest I've ever seen him move. I make to go after him, but Beetee holds me back. "We don't have time," he says as the chorus of bugs starts next to us in the eleven o'clock zone. He takes the wire that I secured to the branch and begins winding it around the knife. "Go help Johanna guard Katniss. She's the priority."

So I guess the secret's out, then.

I nod vigorously and sprint down in to the jungle, following the wire. I can only assume that Beetee knows more about this conspiracy than I do. Man, I'd never thought I would be taking orders from Volts. The wire must have been a signal to Johanna. He separated Peeta and Katniss because he knew that dealing with the both of them together would be too difficult. They won't do anything drastic until they find each other.

I don't stop running until I come up to a spot damp with blood. A lot of blood. "Johanna!" I cry. "Katniss!" Neither of them are here, and neither of them answer. I can spot a path through the jungle, and I think I hear voices. A pair of voices. I run in that direction, calling their names.

The boom of a cannon brings me to a halt. Someone has just died. Who? Is it Johanna? Katniss? Peeta? Beetee? Or someone else? There's no way to know.

I keep running. The bugs are fading. Midnight is approaching.

It's because of the fading clicks that I hear his voice calling her name in the distance. "Katniss! Katniss!" Peeta. Peeta is alive, at least. I redirect my attention to him, following his voice until I hear hers in response, as piercing and shrill as a whistle.

"Peeta! Peeta! I'm here! Peeta!"

I bolt in that direction, not too far away from the lightning tree. Someone else bursts from the underbrush at the same time I do, and it only takes me a moment to recognize Enobaria, bloody and injured from battle. She sees me and scowls, flashing her sharp golden teeth, lifting a sword.

Another cannon goes off. Peeta calls Katniss's name again. She doesn't answer back.

My stomach sinks. That can only mean one thing.

The mission failed.

Enobaria takes a step forward just as the sky erupts into thousands of brilliant colors. We're both thrown to the ground. I hit my head and black out for a second. When I come to, the ground is convulsing under me and the trees are on fire. Debris fly all around me as bits of the earth collapse like many little sink holes.

I see Enobaria on the other side of the tree. She fixes her eyes on me and gives me a terrified look that is probably a reflection of my own expression before the ground between us splits and shifts and she's tossed back into the jungle. I see a hovercraft materialize a little ways from the lightning tree. The claw dips down and picks up one, two bodies. I can't see who they are.

Then the claw comes for me, lifting me from the ground with cold metal fingers.

My heart leaps into my chest when I see Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker, giving me a cool evaluation in the confines of the hovercraft. So the Capitol got to me first. I wonder if the rebels even stood a chance. Is Haymitch even still alive? Did the President figure everything out before I did?

I launch myself at Heavensbee, determined not to go down without a fight. He gives an alarmed yelp and endures two blows before someone yanks me from him. I struggle against the Peacekeeper, snarling profanities and using every dirty tactic I know.

"Cool it, Odair!"

I stop fighting immediately as a familiar face fills my vision. It's not a Peacekeeper. It's Haymitch Abernathy.

He releases me once he sees that I'm shocked into submission and that I won't be attacking anyone again. Yet. "Relax, Finnick. You're safe. Plutarch is in on it."

"Wha - ?"

"There's no time for questions now," Haymitch says. He glances behind us at a group of people who are frantically working around a gurney. I recognize Katniss's thick dark braid. The hovercraft jolts, causing all the medics to collectively stumble and regroup. "We've got to get the situation under control. I'll explain everything later. Just don't punch anyone else, okay?"

He turns and starts shouting orders at people. Heavensbee shoots me one last baffled look (his nose is bleeding, I notice with a bit of smugness) before following Haymitch.

"Sir?" One of the medics comes over to me, frowning in concern. "We need to treat you, too. If your arm keeps bleeding like that, you won't last much longer."

I hold up my arm and realize it's coated in thick red blood gushing from the wound Beetee gave me. The room spins violently, and I don't think it's because of the hovercraft. The medic catches me and lowers me on to a gurney. Then he shoots me up with something and everything is dark.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP: Brutus and Chaff.<strong>

**Recap: Enobaria, Beetee, Finnick, Johanna, Katniss, and Peeta are all alive.**

**It doesn't say so in this chapter, but we all know who dies. I know it's implied in the book that Brutus and Enobaria cut the wire, but I always thought it was suspicious how Johanna immediately knew what to do as soon as the wire went slack. I always imagined it was some kind of signal. I'm also aware that Finnick was probably less ignorant about the plan in the book than he is in this story, but I couldn't think of a good, safe way for him and Haymitch to talk about it. Suzanne Collins just kind of skipped over that part. Hopefully things will clear up with the next chapter (last chapter in Part Three, then we go right on to the finale, Part Four: The Rebellion)!**

**Thoughts?**


	54. CF: The Hovercraft: Explanations

**PART THREE: The Quarter Quell**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **H**overcraft - **E**xplanations

* * *

><p>When I open my eyes, all I see is white light.<p>

I'm in a room with several rows of beds covered in practical white sheets. An infirmary. I hear breathing around me and slowly lift my head. After a bit of wooziness, I find that I can sit up. Katniss is in the bed to the right of me, restrained and hooked up to an IV. She looks horrible. The gray crust is scrubbed off of her, as it was me, but her skin has a pale gray parlor that has nothing to do with the goo. She's too thin, the bones in her face standing out in harsher angles than ever before. She wears a thin nightgown, not the clothes she had on in the arena, and her hair is out of its braid.

Beetee is in the bed across from her. He is surrounded by at least half a dozen beeping machines, all hooked to him via tube or wire. His breath is labored, and every once in a while one of the machines gives an irregular beep. But the rhythm is restored too quickly for it to really matter.

I'm not hooked up to anything, although I have been cleaned and patched up. The wound on my leg is bandaged, as is the one on my arm and the rest of my superficial cuts and bruises. I'm wearing a pair of lightweight gray pants and a similar shirt.

I stand up and wander out of the infirmary, looking for Haymitch. It takes me only a few minutes to find him muttering with Plutarch Heavensbee in some kind of conferance room. He looks up when I come in, and his face goes blank. "Finnick," he says in way of greeting. Haymitch is like a different person. He's sober, for one, and dreadfully serious in a responsible way, not the bitter, cynical way he usually is.

"What's going on?" I ask. "Where is everybody? Johanna? Peeta? Chaff? Where are they? What happened to Beetee and Katniss?"

Haymitch pauses for a very long time. Too long.

"Sit down, Finnick," Heavensbee suggests, gesturing to a table. I comply. I'll do almost anything to get some freaking answers at this point. "Do you want something to eat? You've got to be hungry."

"I want to know what's going on."

"Figures," Haymitch says warily, lowering himself into the seat across from me. "Look, it's a pretty long story, alright? Just bare with me. And don't...freak out."

I narrow my eyes, but motion for him to proceed.

"Right now you are in a hovercraft on your way to District Thirteen," he began gravely. "When the Capitol bombed Thirteen seventy-five years ago, the survivors thrived underground. They don't mine graphite anymore. They've developed nuclear technology, bombs, and so the Capitol leaves them alone as long as they don't get up to anything fishy.

"Well, last year, after Katniss pulled the stunt with the berries, the leader of District Thirteen, Alma Coin, decided it was time to take action. The other districts were already in a state of unrest. She set up this elaborate plan, getting Heavensbee in as the new Head Gamemaker, and alerting me and several other people in the districts. Once the Quarter Quell was announced, we came up with a full-fledged campaign against the President."

"With Katniss as your figurehead," I deduce. "You used her without her knowledge. You know how the people react to her, and you used that. The wedding, the mockingjay outfit, the baby; it was all a manipulation."

"Only because I had to," Haymitch snapped. "It was for her own protection. If we hadn't gotten to her first once the force field went boom, then she was done for."

"Force field?"

"All the tributes from Districts Three, Four, Six, Seven, Eight, and Eleven all had varying degrees of knowledge about the plan for the Quell," Haymitch explained. "Beetee was in charge of destroying the force field around the arena using the lightning. We hinted to Wiress about the clock, knowing she would figure it out first. You were in charge of allying yourself with Katniss and Peeta, keeping them safe, and keeping track of the days with the bread, although Beetee had that information also. Johanna was in charge of getting Wiress and Beetee to Katniss. She also knew about Beetee's plan with the wire and was in charge of cutting Katniss's tracker out once he gave the sign. Everyone else was simply told to protect Katniss and Peeta at all costs. Katniss was determined to make sure that Peeta was the winner of the Games, so I knew that once he died she would just be a loose cannon."

"Peeta didn't know anything, did he?"

"No. He didn't need to. He was just as determined to make sure that she was the winner of the Games. I didn't need to entice him to protect her."

"What happened to him?" I whisper, although I already know the answer. I remember him running away without the tracker cut out of him. The Capitol would have known is exact whereabouts while the force field was extinguished.

"Things didn't go exactly as planned," Heavensbee put in. "Enobaria and Brutus attacked Johanna when she was cutting the tracker out of Katniss, so she had to run away before she could do anything else. And then, of course, Peeta ran away from you and Beetee. Beetee was going to destroy the force field, something went wrong and he ended up electrocuting himself. Chaff went after Brutus and Enobaria. Brutus killed Chaff. Peeta witnessed this and killed Brutus. Enobaria had heard Katniss screaming and went after her. Katniss had found Beetee in the clearing and was trying to redirect the attention from Peeta. Somehow at last minute she realized what Beetee was trying to do and finished the job for him, which is what destroyed the arena."

"You still haven't answered my question," I say.

It's Heavensbee's turn to heave a sigh. "We were able to get to you, Beetee, and Katniss. But after that it was just too hectic. We couldn't reach the others."

"He has them, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Haymitch confirms. "The President got to Johanna, Peeta, and Enobaria before we could. They are currently in the Capitol. We don't know whether they're alive or not, but I'm willing to bet that they are. The President will probably realize that Enobaria is 'innocent' and release her. I know he won't kill Peeta as long as we have Katniss in our possession. He'll use him as bait. He won't kill Johanna either, as long as she doesn't tell him what she knows."

"How are the districts?" I ask, swallowing a lump in my throat. "What's happening there?"

Haymitch and Heavensbee glance at each other. "Well, after Katniss destroyed the force field, the districts rioted. All of them are engaged in fierce battle against the Peacekeepers," Heavensbee said. "Communications are down in Seven, Ten, and Twelve, but Eleven has control of transportation now, so there's at least a hope of them getting some food out."

Riots. Fierce battle. Violence. Chaos. Death.

"Annie," I rasp. "I need to get Annie out of there."

"No, I'm sorry," Heavensbee says. "There's no way I can get you to Four. But I've given special orders for her retrieval if possible. It's the best I can do, Finnick."

My reality almost comes crumbling down around me as I realize a horrible truth. That my nightmare with the jabberjays has become a reality. Annie is out there, in danger, in the middle of a _war_, and there is nothing I can do to get to her, to protect her. I press my palms to my eyes to keep the tears from overflowing. "Just kill me. If I die - "

"Don't be stupid," Haymitch cuts in. "That's the worst thing you can do. Get her killed for sure. As long as _you're _alive, they'll keep _her _alive for bait."

Just then Katniss bursts through the door, her eyes roaming around wildly, dressed in her nightgown. They must have removed her restraints while I was gone. She stumbles forward blindly, focused on Haymitch.

"Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?" he sneers. He grabs her wrists to steady her as she trips and nearly falls on the table, into the food that I didn't even notice was there. He turns up her right hand, which has a syringe tucked under the bandage. "So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans. Drop it." He squeezes until she does, the needle falling with a plastic clatter to the floor. Then he sits her in the chair next to me. Plutarch pushes food in front of her and tells her to eat, but like me she pretends like the food isn't even there.

Haymitch and Plutarch tell Katniss everything they have just told me. She obviously struggles to take it all in. At first they just feed her the bits about the plan to get her out of the arena, and she accuses us of excluding her. Then we reveal that she is the mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion, and the betrayal on her face becomes deeper, darker, as she realizes how completely she has been manipulated by us, her friends, her allies. The people she unwillingly offered her trust.

She asks about Peeta. Haymitch tells her the horrible, horrible truth.

With a screech she launches herself over the table and claws at his face, slapping him hard enough to draw blood. She shouts all sorts of obscenities at him as I grab her by the arms and drag her out of the room, and an outraged Haymitch spits awful things right back at her, one hand clapped over his eye.

She squirms and fights me until I get her back in the infirmary, where some of the medics grab her and help me lower her on a table. They strap her in by her wrists and ankles and waist, so the only thing she can move is her head. She slams it on the metal slab again and again, screaming with rage that goes beyond articulation, until the medics are forced to sedate her before she gives herself a concussion.

"That will keep her knocked out for a few hours," they say. They plug some tubes into her arm, and her gaze grows unfocused. One of the medics closes her eyes. Somehow I know she's not really asleep.

I stay next to her and apologize and apologize. I can't say sorry enough. I feel horrible for lying to her now that I see the full extent of her grief, of her betrayal. I try to make her feel better, even though part of me knows its futile. Maybe I'm only trying to make myself feel better, because aren't Peeta and Annie in the same situation?

I don't want to think about Annie, so I focus on Johanna.

"It's better for him than Johanna," I whisper to Katniss when her eyes slowly open. She doesn't look at me. She stares at the ceiling. "They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you."

"Like bait? Like how they'll use Annie for bait, Finnick?" Katniss says. I wish she would yell at me, hiss, something. But her voice is frighteningly monotone, empty of emotion. She does not feel any kinship with me. All she wants to do is hurt me with those words by forcing me to confront what I'm trying to avoid. What she is confronting, because she doesn't have anyone else to focus her worries on.

I can't stop the crying. I put my head in my hands and try to choke down the sobs. If only I had never met Annie. If only she'd never been reaped. If only Opal had killed her like he was supposed to five years ago. Then she wouldn't have to go through this torment, and I would be invincible.

"I wish she was dead," I tell Katniss after I'm done crying. I join her in staring at the ceiling. "I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best."

Katniss doesn't say anything else to me. It occurs to me that I could fulfill that wish by killing Katniss and then committing suicide. If what Haymitch says is true, then our deaths would result in the deaths of Peeta and Annie. Maybe even Johanna. I could end their misery. I could end all of our miseries right now.

I could strangle Katniss. She couldn't fight back even if she wanted to, which I don't think she does. And then...then I can just find syringe like Katniss. Or a scalpel. I could cut my throat, and it would all be over.

Something on the table next to me gets my attention. It's a round piece of silver necklace, slightly disfigured. The chain is broken.

I take Mags's locket in my hand and close it in my fist. They must have taken it off when they cleaned me up. I press the locket to my lips, remembering the look in her eyes as she handed it to me before she embraced the fog. Mags died for Katniss. She died for this cause.

I can't take that away from her.

I get out of the bed and go looking for Haymitch again. I find him in the same room, getting patched up by one of the medics. "Your eye looks fine," she declares, dabbing his scratches with something that smells antiseptic. "It's just a little bit irritated."

"Haymitch," I say, grabbing his shoulder. "Where is it?"

"What?" he growls irrately, rubbing his eye.

"The necklace. My token."

Comprehension dawns on his face, and he pulls something out from under his shirt, fumbling with the latch until he can get it from around his neck. "I hope you don't mind I wore it, but I didn't want to lose it."

I take it from him and rub the surface of the sea glass with the pad of my thumb, the little dot of blue that always reminded me of Annie's asymmetrical eyes. Once again I can see her splashing into the waves to pick it up, feeling her warm body in my arms as I embraced her in the water. When I tear my eyes away, Haymitch is giving me what I think is a sympathetic look.

"We really will do our best to find her," he says.

I slip Mags's locket on the chain and hook it around my neck, placing the charms under my shirt so I can always feel them on my skin. "I wish I could believe you," I reply. Haymitch blinks, and his mouth hardens into a thin line.

I leave, and I don't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>And that is the conclusion of Part Three! There's not going to be a hiatus between Part Three and Part Four since I had originally only planned for three parts (and I just feel like continuing it immediately before the writer's block sets in again). I will be skipping quite a lot, though. I'll probably pick up around the time Katniss agrees to become the official Mockingjay, since that's when Finnick comes back up in the story. But I'll do an overview.<strong>

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)**


	55. M: District Thirteen: The Mockingjay

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **T**he **M**ockingjay

* * *

><p>People say that madness is like a spark.<p>

It ignites with a feverish zeal in the eyes of the afflicted, without any warning, just like an ember that leaps unbidden from a flame. It flickers in the dark depths of their gaze, as clear and bright as the swift flash of a falling star in a midnight sky. The mad are a legion of tempests, a sea broiling with freedom and imagination and inner demons writhing in torment beneath the surface. That is what people say. That is what they think.

Those people are wrong.

Madness is not anything so spry or romantic. It descends rather like a thick gray fog, creeping slowly into the territory of your mind. Once it has covered all ground with an imperceptible layer of film, it gradually grows more opaque. You don't even notice it's happening until one day you realize that you're walking in circles through this gray mist, that it's so thick you have no idea where you're going, that you have to concentrate just to get out a coherent thought.

I can't pinpoint exactly when the madness began to seep into my brain. If I had to guess, I'd say it was the day we passed over District Twelve and pulled the survivors of the bombing out of the forest. I remember helping the other able-bodied travel back and forth between the hovercraft and the forest floor, reassuring the trembling, dirty people crowded around little twig shelters. They all looked completely, utterly empty. Even the children couldn't find it in themselves to laugh or cry. I remember thinking, _So this is war_. I think the madness started there.

It's not so bad. The medics quit giving me drugs after that because many of the people we rescued from the forest were injured, so the fog took their place. It doesn't let me think about things that will hurt me. And when I do, it cushions the blow. The madness is a blanket that envelopes you; the trick is not suffocating yourself.

The psychologists in District Thirteen handled that for me. They were afraid of how comfortable I'd already become with the constant daze that smothers my senses and my pain, so they gave me a Focus in the form of a rope. It's not very strong, and it's not very long, but it's soft and pliable in my hands. I make knots with it. I untie them. My Focus keeps me from getting lost in the mist.

Other than making sure I stay alive and relatively healthy, District Thirteen doesn't have much to do with me. They welcomed us when we landed; not warmly, not kindly, but they still welcomed us. They supplied me with a standard set of clothes, a standard room with standard furniture, a standard schedule, and standard food. I'm treated with the same nonchalance as everyone else. I do what I'm told when I'm told. I tie my rope. I eat. I sleep. I cry. That's almost like a scheduled activity too, although it's not printed on my arm. I don't even know why I do it sometimes. I'll just put my fingers to my cheek and I will find tears there.

I don't know how long we've been in District Thirteen. It's all just a big gray blur. I don't ask about the war, and no one keeps me updated.

I do think about Annie. She's always on my mind. I worry about her, and I wonder when we're going to rescue her from the Capitol. I want her back more than anything. Her face is the only clear thing I can picture. Her voice still echoes in my ears. I don't like thinking about what she's going through, so I mainly fantasize about her coming home. There are so many different versions of our joy in my madness-muddled mind. Unfortunately, none of them are plausible.

I just go back to knotting, unknotting.

Katniss talks to me now. She has ever since I helped rescue her family and friends from the ruins of District Twelve. I remember bringing her little sister, Prim, aboard the hovercraft myself. Gale eyed me suspiciously before he handed her off to me. I don't think he likes me much, but I think he trusted me the most out of all the unfamiliar faces swarming the forest. Now he knows more people in Thirteen than I do.

She bumps into me now, saying my name. By her tone she's already said it a few times. I'm happy to see her, though, because now that I'm looking around I realize I'm piled in a big room—they call it the Collective—surrounded by almost everyone in District Thirteen. A meeting. We're having a meeting.

"Finnick!" she says again, grabbing my shoulder. "How are you doing?"

I grip her hand. It's easier to talk to people when I'm touching them. "Katniss, why are we meeting here?"

"I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay," Katniss says. I blink. I thought it was understood that Katniss was already the Mockingjay, ever since she came here. Now that I think about it, she's been about as productive as I have. "But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels won. In public, so there are plenty of witnesses."

"Oh, good," I say, relieved, "because I worry about that with Annie. That she'll say something that could be construed as traitorous without knowing it." Annie's _Them vs. Us_ complex probably extends into any sort of governing body. I doubt she'd be able to distinguish between Capitol and District Thirteen politics right away.

"Don't worry, I took care of it," she assures, giving my hand a squeeze before she disappears into the crowd. I see her pop up again beside a severe-looking woman with neat hair the color of steel on the podium, and they begin an intense conversation while more people pile into the Collective. I watch them with narrowed eyes before I go back to knotting.

I don't like Alba Coin much. I've talked to her exactly twice, and neither time did she make a very good impression. The first time was when we arrived and she greeted everyone individually. She paid special attention to me, sizing me up with eyes as gray as the skin of a bloated corpse. "Finnick Odair," she said. "I know you."

"I don't know you," I told her.

"I'm President Alba Coin," she responded, holding out a hand. Her grip was cool and firm. "I run District Thirteen. I have a feeling that you and I will be working very closely together."

At the time, I thought she was looking for another Mockingjay. It wasn't until later that I realized she was looking for an informant, a person who would gather and spill secrets. I wouldn't be in the limelight beside Katniss. Her plans for me were in the shadows, whispering secrets, not shouting battle cries. It was too much like Snow's use for me. It gave me chills.

Besides, it's hard for me to like the President of anything.

The second time I spoke with her was the day after I got my Focus. She had someone with a bleeping cuff attached to their wrist escort me from my room to her office. They led me inside and closed the door, leaving me and Coin alone. She sat at a big metal desk, assessing me with that same dead stare. Then she sat back, shook her head, and said, "What a shame."

We haven't spoken since.

From what I can tell, Katniss doesn't care too much for Coin either. Good. If Coin's using her, it's good for her to be on her toes. Maybe Coin can't use the same leverage that President Snow used on me, for propriety's sake at the very least, but she can figure out another way to make Katniss compliant if Katniss isn't careful.

The rope slips fluidly through my fingers, and I pull to unravel the knot I'd ferociously tied.

As Katniss makes her way back over to me, Coin calls for attention. When she's satisfied with the lull she begins speaking without preamble. "I've called you all here to announce that Solider Everdeen has consented to be the Mockingjay, provided that the other victors—Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Golding, and Annie Cresta—are granted full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause."

I don't like the sound of Annie's name on Coin's lips. She says it harshly, with sharp syllables, making it sound more like "a knee" instead of curling her tongue around the soft curves of the "Ann" and forming the long "ee" sound with her entire mouth. Hearing her say Annie's name doesn't bring me any comfort at all.

The people around us are throwing Katniss irritated glances and muttering to themselves, perhaps because it took her so long to agree to the inevitable. Coin waits for the murmuring to die down before she continues.

"But in return for this unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own." Coin lets that sink in. I feel an ice spread in the pit of my stomach as the words sooth the crowd like a balm. I glance at Katniss, whose face is grim and pale. Did she agree to that as well? Or was she strong-armed into it?

Two words echo in my mind. _Immunity. Terminated_. If Katniss does anything that Coin considers wrong, then not only will Katniss face the consequences, but Annie will too.

"Thank you," Coin says. And then she steps off the podium, concluding the meeting. People branch off into their own conversations as they leave the Collective to resume their day. Meetings are always a bit of a nuisance for workers in District Thirteen; people have to readjust their schedules for them.

Katniss just heaves a weary sigh and sets her shoulders. "Well," she says, "I guess it's time to become a Mockingjay, then."

"Soldier Mockingjay, reporting for duty," I say. The humor of the joke is tainted somewhat by the fact that I still haven't looked up from my rope, but I can hear Katniss chuckle.

"I've got to get prepped first," she says.

I shudder. "Don't say that."

"What?"

"Prepped. I don't like it."

I pull my rope. It curls into a tight ball, as though embracing something, sheltering something. Then I tug at a different end and it all unravels. There's nothing inside.

"…Yeah," Katniss says after a long pause. "I don't like it either."

I wish her luck as she turns and leaves the Collective. The rope remains limp in my hand. It's starting to fray and curl from my using it so much. I shouldn't need this rope anymore. I shouldn't need a Focus just to think.

Slowly, I begin another knot.

* * *

><p>Eventually someone finds me in the Collective and brings me to lunch. After that I'm somehow swept up to the soundstage where Katniss will be doing her first propaganda. Plutarch Heavensbee and his assistant, Fulvia, have me painting things and working with smoke machines, but eventually they realize I mess everything up and let me wander around aimlessly. I come across Katniss in her Mockingjay outfit after a while. She looks phenomenal, like some kind of warrior goddess. But anyone who knows anything about fighting can easily tell she hasn't just emerged out of a recent battle.<p>

Then again, most of the people watching either don't know what that looks like or they don't need to see more of it than they already have. What people need to see is a warrior goddess.

I come up behind her and watch the clippings of her in the smoke and pyrotechnics on stage. "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you," I tell her. She smirks and rolls her eyes in response, but I think I've brightened her spirits a bit.

My idea that Katniss has become a warrior goddess comes to a screeching halt when she does her first real acting for the propo. She's awful. All she really has to do is shout a single line—"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, and we end our hunger for justice!"—but do so in an inspiring way.

It's not inspiring. It's…well, I don't really know what it is. But it's certainly not inspiring. Standing there, fist in the air, surrounded by fake smoke and flickering sparks, she looks a little ridiculous as she shrieks the line. I watch with the others in a booth, and we're all wearing the same dumbfounded expressions.

Except Haymitch, of course. He's come in just before the shooting. He doesn't say much to me; we haven't talked since he gave back Annie's sea glass. But when Katniss says her line, he dissolves into fits of mocking laughter. He also presses the intercom so everyone can hear.

"And that, my friends," he says, "is how a revolution dies."

I feel bad for Katniss, but there's one thing I can't fault Haymitch for: we were all thinking it. I suppose we were all fooled into thinking that Katniss was experienced enough with the cameras to handle a simple propo. But now something is dawning on all of us, a horrible realization: every time Katniss has been on the air, so has Peeta.

Katniss isn't the proficient actor. Peeta is. She can't act without him. She can't be the Mockingjay without him. And if Katniss can't be the Mockingjay, then Annie doesn't have immunity.

No one does.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello there! Welcome to Part Four: The Rebellion, the final entry in this story. I'll admit I had some doubts that I'd make it this far, so I thank all you for your continuous support. It's because of you that I have.<strong>

**Anyway, I know this chapter pretty much picks up where Mockingjay does. Even a little bit later. But that's only because nothing very interesting has happened that can't be covered in a paragraph or two. Besides, guys, Finnick's just had a mental breakdown; how much interesting stuff can you really expect him to be doing? A lot of this is going to be very Katniss-oriented, since that's really the only part in Mockingjay at the moment when Finnick does something significant. **

**As always, I ask your thoughts. :)**


	56. M: District Thirteen: The Trident

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **T**he **T**rident

* * *

><p>Katniss storms out of the studio after that, and for the rest of the next day every conversation she has with Haymitch usually ends the same way. Apparently she didn't realize that he was in charge of the propos. She didn't even know that he was still up and running in District Thirteen. Perhaps she thought that her fingernails had permanently incapacitated him or something. He does still have faint scars on his face, but they're only visible when he makes certain facial expressions, like scowling. Which he does often.<p>

Still, Haymitch looks worse for wear. He's yellow and lost a lot of weight. There are rumors that he's detoxing from alcohol. Now that I think about it, I haven't seen him around, but I just figured he was busy. I never imagined it was for medical reasons.

After several more failed attempts at finishing the propo, Haymitch calls a meeting in Command. He invites me, and I have no idea why. "Because we need you," is his response when I ask. Then he says, "Oh, and don't forget to bring Beetee on your way in. If you don't drag him out of that damned lab of his, he won't come."

It's strange. This is the first time since coming here that I've been in charge of another person. I wonder if I'll mess up this task like the others.

When it comes time for the meeting I ride up the elevator to the Special Defense level. It's basically a place to design weapons and test them. Before I probably would have loved it. Now I can barely stand coming up here. Everything evokes a memory, and most of them aren't pleasant.

I find Beetee hovering over a blueprint. He seems surprised to see me, since I've only been up here once. "Finnick," he says, blinking at me in greeting from his wheeled chair. "It's an interesting coincidence that you came now. I'm working on—"

"It's time for a meeting," I interrupt. I'm determined to tell him before I forget. "Haymitch sent me to get you."

"Oh, yes, the propaganda meeting," Beetee says nonchalantly. "Very well, wheel me to Command then. Now, as I was saying…"

I look at the rope in my hand in my moment of clarity and gently drop it in my pocket before taking the two handles on Beetee's chair in my hands and carefully wheeling him toward the elevator. He tells me about some new thing he's designing, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm just focused on getting him to Command. I repeat it in my mind. Command, Command, Command.

We go at such a pace that we're the last ones to make it to the meeting, but Beetee doesn't press me. Haymitch welcomes us, and I feel a little proud. The other people I recognize are Coin, Heavensbee, Fulvia, Gale, and Katniss. In addition to these are unfamiliar faces, two of which I recognize from the District Twelve rescue and three of which have obviously come from the Capitol. I don't know who they are, but if I had to guess, I'd say there were Katniss's prep team. There are also some of Coin's people, looking grim and colorless, like suits of armor, and one additional man who has the drawl of District Ten.

After we're all situated, Haymitch plays the footage we have of Katniss's propo. It's even more horrendous on tape. "All right," he says, stopping it after it's over. "Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?"

No one says a word, not even Katniss, who has avoided looking at Haymitch the entire time.

"That saves time. So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where _she_ made you feel something real."

We all think for a really long time. Or at least, I try to. My thoughts often go off in different directions, what I hang on to that can be useful all involve Peeta.

Finally, the man from District Twelve speaks up. "When she volunteered to take Prim's place at the reaping. Because I'm sure she thought she was going to die."

"Good, excellent example," Haymitch says. He writes that down on a notepad and looks up. "Somebody else."

More silence.

"When she sang that song," one of Coin's guards say. "While that little girl died."

"Who didn't get choked up over that, right?" Haymitch agrees with a hint of sarcasm, writing it down on the notepad.

"I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him goodbye!" blurts the woman with green skin. She covers her mouth as though stopping the flow of words, but Haymitch nods and writes that down too.

"When she took the little girl in as an ally," says the man from Ten.

"Don't overlook the interviews, when she took Chaff's hand and we all walked offstage together," Beetee says. "They had to turn off the cameras for that."

"When she tried to carry Mags," I suggest to my rope.

"And the berries," says Coin, clear and precise. "The threat with the berries is important."

"Oh, yes! Her love of Peeta—" Heavensbee begins, but Fulvia gives him a look and interrupts him.

"She was obviously just trying to survive and preserve her humanity at the same time—"

"Defiance!" says one of Coin's lackeys. "Defiance of the Capitol's inhumanity!"

Haymitch holds up the notepad, silencing everyone. "So, the question is, what do all of these have in common?"

"They were Katniss's," says Gale. "No one told her what to do or say."

"Unscripted, yes!" Beetee cries, patting Katniss's hand and offering her a wink behind his glasses. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"

"Well, that's all very nice but not very helpful," Fulvia snaps. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you're suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat—"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm suggesting," Haymitch says. "Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras rolling."

"But people think she's pregnant," Gale says. Never mind her personal safety, or that she was just released from the psych ward a few weeks ago.

"We'll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena. Very sad. Very unfortunate," Heavensbee says. He's already got a whole story narrated.

I don't like this, but other people in the room don't either. Coin included. "I'm not going to send her out into _battle_," she objects. "What if she's killed? Then who will promote the war, boost the morale? We'll have no one left."

She doesn't even look my way.

"Every time we coach her or give her lines, the best we can hope for is okay. It has to come from her," Haymitch argues. "That's what people are responding to."

"Even if we're careful, we can't guarantee her safety," said Coin's man from earlier, the one who talked about Katniss singing. "She'll be a target for every—"

"I want to go," Katniss interferes. Every pair of eyes turns to her. "I'm no help to the rebels here."

"And if you're killed?" Coin challenges.

"Make sure you get some footage," Katniss says dryly. "You can use that, anyway."

"Fine," Coin surrenders. "But let's take it one step at a time. Find the least dangerous situation that can evoke some spontaneity in you."

We decide to go to District Eight, which the Capitol has just recently bombed and raided. Katniss will go in, armed with a squad of body guards and a camera crew. Haymitch will be watching from above, making sure that Katniss is in as little danger as possible.

Haymitch adjourns the meeting, and everyone goes their separate ways. I head straight down to the Airborne Division, along with the rest of Katniss's body guards.

One of Coin's men stops me outside the elevator. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to District Eight," I say. "I'm one of Katniss's body guards."

"You look familiar. What's your name?"

"Finnick Odair."

"Oh, that's right. You're the one guy…Well, Soldier Odair, I doubt that you've been assigned to protect our Mockingjay," the man remarks, looking me up and down with a cold, critical gray eye. "I don't know what assumptions you're under, but I can't let you in this aircraft."

"This is ridiculous," I snap at him. "I protected Katniss during the Quarter Quell! I know her better than any of these guys, and we work well as a team. I'm more capable of protecting her than all of them combined."

"Careful what you say, Soldier."

"No, you be careful what you say. Now, you're going to let me on this aircraft—"

"I'm not authorized to do that, I told you."

"I don't need authorization!" I yell, officially frustrated. "I'm her friend!"

"Friend or not, you are clearly in no condition to protect her," the solider hisses at me. "You'd be a better friend if you just stayed here."

"Just let me on the aircraft and we'll see what Haymitch has to say about that," I growl.

The man sighs, obviously exasperated. I'm wearing him down. "Look," he says, "I don't have the authority to let you in. But Captain Boggs and Solider Everdeen are coming over here right now, and if you can convince them, then by all means, come aboard."

I turn around and see that a muscular man is escorting Katniss, in a new, more functional suit, to the elevator. I hurry over to them before they can make it. "Katniss! They won't let me go. I told them I'm fine, but they won't even let me ride in the hovercraft!"

Katniss and Boggs blink at me for a moment. Then Katniss smacks her forehead, laughing. "Oh, I forgot. It's this stupid concussion," she says, rolling her eyes. "I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He's designed a new trident for you."

"Really?" I ask. Actually, I think I remember him saying something about new weapons on the way to the meeting. I was just too focused on getting him there to listen. "What's it do?"

"I don't know, but if it's anything like my bow and arrows, you're going to love it," Katniss says, gesturing to the sleek bow on her back. "You'll need to train with it, though."

"Right. Of course. I guess I better get down there," I say. Maybe if I can't go with Katniss on this propo, I can go with her on the next one.

"Finnick? Maybe some pants?"

"Huh?" I glance down at myself, noticing that I'm still in the rumpled hospital gown I wore to bed last night. I wonder how long I've been going pants-less. At least I have underwear on. Quickly I strip off the hospital gown and toss it over my shoulder, grinning as I strike a seductive pose for Katniss. "Why? Do you find this distracting?"

She breaks out into a great fit of laughter, and the man who I presume is Boggs practically keels over from embarrassment. He probably thinks I'm even crazier now. But, oh well, as long as I made Katniss laugh.

I miss laughter.

She gets one last gibe in—"I'm only human, Odair,"—before stepping into the elevator and riding up to the Hangar with Boggs. I'm left alone, in my underwear, with a rope hanging from my hand.

I'm thinking that maybe Katniss is right. I should at least get some pants on.

So I meander my way down to my quarters. It takes me a couple of tries, but I eventually find it. Or I hope so. If not, some young soldier is missing his second set of gray clothes.

I could do with a shave too, but I've asked for a razor before and they won't give me one. If I want my hair cut, someone else has to do it for me. I guess I'll just have to deal with the stubble right now.

After I'm relatively cleaned up, I head down to Special Weaponry to look for Beetee. He seems pretty busy, talking on microphones and pressing a multitude of buttons on a little keyboard in his lap, but when he sees me standing awkwardly in the corner of the room he acknowledges me with a friendly nod. "Finnick, how are you? What do you need?"

"My trident," I say. "You're designing a trident for me?"

"Yes, yes, that," says Beetee, a new light flicking on in his dark, intelligent eyes. "I think you'll quite like it. It's one of a kind, and I've done my best to work out all the kinks, but it will need some testing. After all, it still is just a prototype. Come, follow me."

I follow his instructions as I wheel him into another room. Inside are a variety of weapons—swords, bows, knives, grenades, flares, and guns. There are a lot of guns. Most of them are either locked in glass cases or simply resting on hooks along the walls. There are a few tables covered with the animatronic carcasses of other weapons in the making, protected by fortresses of toolboxes.

"This is the Arsenal," Beetee says, eyeing my reaction. "This is where all the prototypes are thought up, blueprinted, and built. We test each and every one and improve them until they work as flawlessly as possible. Then we send them to Coin for mass production."

As I look around, I notice that the level of organization occurring here transcends a first glance. Each wall is dedicated to a specific type of weapon, and within that wall there are subcategories based on weight, size, and overall deadliness. Those subcategories are further separated by the stage in the mass-production process—new untested prototypes on the bottom, ones undergoing improvements in the middle, and at the top in the glass cases lie the cream of the crop.

Much more organized than a pile of archaic blades in the mouth of the Cornucopia.

"Of course," Beetee says cautiously when the overwhelming firepower in the room fails to evoke a reaction from me, "I occasionally dawdle in my own personal projects to get away from the pressure of deadlines and cooperation. I like District Thirteen, but some of these people fail to understand the artistry and technology that goes into these weapons. Anything that seems superficial to them gets eliminated. They are almost too…conservative."

I never would have guessed that Beetee thought of himself as an artist.

"Anyway, Coin's allowed me some freedom to experiment and stretch my creativity," he says, wheeling his way toward a big black box in the corner of the room. "With all the resources available here, I've really come up with some masterpieces. Of course, they'll never go into mass-production; not only are they more wasteful and taxing to manufacture, but it takes great familiarity and skill to wield them. That's why I've focused on you and Katniss, specifically. You two in particular have a specific weapon that most don't consider weapons for battle. But I believe that with the right adjustments, you could be the deadliest soldiers to walk these halls."

He pulls a key out of his pocket and slides it into a lock at the top of the box as he speaks, twisting it to the right and pulling up the heavy lid. He reaches inside and struggles to lift a sleek black trident, seamless in craftsmanship and wicked in design. The three prongs are topped with narrow spikes that bow into hooks where they become the body of the trident, forming a trio of triangles with two corners that curve like fangs. The main body of the trident is about the width and circumference of my fist, and it is just shorter than my shoulder.

Beetee lays it in his lap and offers it to me that way. Somewhat in a trance, I take it from him, testing the weight of it in my hands. It's surprisingly light. It feels…versatile. There's an almost invisible button near the top. I press it, and a net shoots out of the bottom.

"Nylon fibers," Beetee says as I pick it up. "Big enough to trap two adults. Equipped with motion-sensors that send out needle-thin blades when something tries to struggle in it."

Curiously I spin one of the fibers between my thumb and forefinger. Almost immediately I feel the sharp sting of invisible needles and release it to bring my bleeding thumb to my lips.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Beetee chuckles. "The trident itself is also very sophisticated. It too has motion-sensing devices, so it can detect whom you're directing your attack at and adjust if your aim is off. There's a setting that will recognize your touch only, so if anyone else touches it, the net will pop out and entangle them. I can show you how to turn it on and off. I do suggest you don't use that setting here, though, to be on the safe side."

I nod absently, running my hands over the curvature of the weapon. I can almost feel it buzzing on my skin, like there are hundreds of bees trapped inside. I hate to admit it, but it feels good to have my own weapon in my hands again. I've never particularly liked guns.

"So," Beetee says. "What do you think?"

"…It's perfect," I say. "Where can I try it out?"

He grins, obviously pleased with my reaction. "Follow me."

I spend the next few hours training with my new trident in a long, narrow room that Beetee lets me use. There are a variety of targets at the very end of it. I stick with the foam punching bags, and avoid the mannequins shaped like human torsos.

The trident is magnificent. It seems like it hits whatever mark I aim it at. Like it can read what I'm thinking, and then it just sails across the air to its destination. I get similar results with the net, although I do prick my hands a few times. Beetee provides me with thick leather gloves. Problem solved.

I don't know how long I stay cooped up in that little room, but it feels like time has stopped. It's bliss. I don't think about anything but my next target, nothing but throwing the trident and watching as it sinks into the foam. I don't think about Katniss, or Mags, or Haymitch, or Johanna. I don't even think about Annie. All my thoughts lay next to the half-tied rope coiled in the corner of the room.


	57. M: District Thirteen: Propoganda

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **P**ropoganda

* * *

><p>I train until I'm too sore to move. Beetee blinks up from his work when I find him. I try to give him back the trident, but he shakes his head. "Was there anything wrong?" he asks.<p>

"No, it was perfect."

"Then keep it. It's a gift for you."

I shake my head and place it on a table. "I appreciate it, but…"

Beetee nods after a prolonged pause. He says he understands, but I don't think he does, not really. If he did, why would he surround himself with weapons all day? If he understood, then how is he functioning like a relatively normal person?

I grab my rope on the way out.

I don't know how long I wander around, tying my rope, but eventually I end up in the hospital wing. That happens a lot, actually. Maybe it's by design, or maybe someone leads me here and I just don't notice. Maybe it's something subconscious in me. Who knows?

I spot someone familiar—the man who was walking Katniss to the Hangar. What was his name? Boggs? If Boggs is here, then that must mean Katniss is too. I adjust my aimless wandering to look for her instead, and see her curled up in a hospital bed. She looks relatively unharmed, but a little bruised up. And unconscious.

I drift around some more. People start buzzing all around me, saying something about a propo. Are they airing that already? They move fast. I wonder how long Katniss and her crew have been back, how long I've been wandering.

The screen in the hospital flickers, so I stand back and watch the propo with everyone else. It starts off black, but then a spark emerges from the center, igniting the darkness until the screen is blazing with an inferno. Katniss's trademark mockingjay pin glows an angry red in the center. Claudius Templesmith's voice echoes from the fire. "_Katniss Everdeen, the girl who is on fire, burns on_."

Katniss appears on the screen in battle, the fake fire replaced with real fire, the inanimate mockingjay replaced with the animate one. She looks determined, furious, and a little desperate, covered in soot from head to toe. There's no makeup artist in the world who can paint that face on her. "_I want to tell the rebels that I am alive. That I'm right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women, and children. There will be no survivors_." Katniss disappears, replaced by the image of a building on fire. Thunder booms in the distance, so like the cannon blasts that haunt my nightmares, and the building collapses in on itself, fire rising up like hands from hell. Katniss's voice roars above the flame, above the cannons, above everything. "_I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're kidding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." _It goes back to her, gesturing around at the ruin._ "This is what they do! And we must fight back!_"

Next is a series of horrific snapshots from District Eight, mostly Katniss and her team dodging burning debris, scaling walls, and—the most dramatic of the scenes—shooting down the Capitol's planes, sending them spiraling to the ground with simple arrows. Katniss continues to speak, walking toward the camera. "_President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?_" She points to a Capitol seal on a flag that is burning on a building. "_Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!_"

Flames take over the screen, and in bold black letters her last words appear like sturdy pillars refusing to burn. Finally they do, and the screen goes black again.

People all around me are cheering and clapping hysterically, producing a phenomenal racket. It feels like the world is spinning too fast around me. There's a ringing in my ears that I can't place, and it's taking over everything.

I double over and vomit in a corner.

Someone quickly gets the attention of the celebrating nurses, who rush over to my side and bring me to a cot. Then they notice who I am and one of them fetches my psychiatrist.

They've aired the propo again by the time he gets there, but I can't see it or hear it. I've got my face buried into a pillow. I'm sobbing uncontrollably.

"Finnick," says Dr. Barns. He's a sturdy blonde man of average height and build, with pale skin and a featureless face. Like a lot of what District Thirteen provides, he's as bland as can be. Only his voice is remarkable, a deep rumbling timbre that I'm convinced got him his job in the first place. "The nurses tell me you're sick."

I decline to answer.

"They say you threw up after watching the propo."

Again, I don't say anything, but I've stopped crying.

"Is there anything you wish to talk about?"

"No," I finally say. That usually gets him to go away, but today he doesn't take the bait. He sighs theatrically and pulls up a chair next to my bed.

"I have conflicted feelings about the propo," he offers conversationally. "What about you? How do you feel about it, Finnick?"

I know from experience that he won't leave until I talk, not when he's insistent, so I figure I might as well play along and get it over with. "I'm also conflicted, doctor," I tell him.

"Why are you conflicted?"

"Because everyone around me is cheering and laughing, but I don't see anything to celebrate about."

Barns considers this. "Well, we've just released a tool that will greatly influence the opinions of apathetic parties and aid us in the war. Isn't that worth celebrating?"

"What about those people in the hospital?" I say. "Are their deaths worth ignoring?"

"Finnick, you must know there's nothing we could have done about that. The Capitol would have bombed the hospital in Eight whether or not we were there to film it. But now, we have their dark deeds recorded. And Miss Everdeen valiantly took down the responsible parties. The loss is great, yes, but you shouldn't lose yourself in mourning over it. That's war."

I look up at him from the pillow. My tears are dry. "All I know is that I've been on the other side of that screen," I say. "People clapped and cheered for death then, too. I just didn't think it'd be the same way here."

Dr. Barns doesn't know what else to say. He blinks at me, claps a hand on my shoulder, and walks away. I'm rather relieved. Usually when he's run out of ideas he brings up Annie, and I don't know if I can handle talking about her right now.

One of the nurses brings me a tray of food for dinner. I stir it around with my fork for a few minutes before I walk across the hospital to Katniss's bed. She's awake now, absently playing with the end of her dark braid. She greets me when I sit down next to her. Her television is on, and they're getting ready to play another propo. It's essentially the same as the last one, only this time a few people's voices are playing as well. I recognize Gale and Boggs.

Katniss has her face burrowed in her pillow until the end. Somehow this makes me feel better about the whole thing, so when it's over and she's unearthed herself, I tell her what she needs to hear. "People should know what happened. And now they do."

"Let's turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again," she says, a faint hint of relief in her tone. As I reach for the remote she grabs my hand, urging me to wait. The Capitol seal has reappeared on the screen, and Caesar Flickerman's voice announcing an interview.

Oh, no.

The last interview, I remember, was Peeta urging the rebels to give up. The propo we've just aired is a direct disregard of that plea. And this interview is the Capitol's retaliation. The rebels and the Capitol are waging more than one war.

I grit my teeth when Peeta appears on the screen. He looks horrible. He's thin, his skin is sallow and sunken, there are dark circles under his eyes. For all intensive purposes he looks unharmed, but his suit covers a lot, and no amount of clothing can hide the pain he's in. Peeta isn't being treated with the same comfort he was when we last saw him. He is being tormented.

"So, Peeta, what do you think of the rumors going around that Katniss is taping propaganda for the rioting districts?" Caesar asks after a few precautionary lines of banter.

"They're using her, obviously, to whip up the rebels," Peeta answers immediately. "I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?"

"There is." Peeta looks directly into the camera as it closes up on his face. "Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't…find out."

The screen comes up again with the seal, then goes black. It was a short interview, but effective. And clearly meant for Katniss. The President is showing her the consequences of her actions through Peeta, and using him to question the people who may or may not be controlling her. Peeta is the President's Mockingjay.

If Coin knows that Katniss saw this, then she'd be in real trouble. Peeta's words can only have one affect on Katniss: to question District Thirteen. And maybe she should. But in order for us to know more, Coin can't know that we want to know more.

I quickly shut off the television and grab Katniss's arm, making her look directly into my eyes. Her own gray ones are frantic, uncertain, flickering with pain. Everything that the President wants her to feel, she's feeling it.

"We didn't see it," I tell her, digging my nails into her arm.

"What?"

"We didn't see Peeta. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?" She nods. I let her go and push her bowl of stew over to her. "Finish your dinner."

She eats the stew and is silent as she tries to pull herself together. In only a few minutes, I hear footsteps outside and start talking about Gale on camera, how well he did, when Plutarch and Fulvia "drop by" to see how we're doing.

"Great," I answer, since Katniss has wisely stuffed her face with food. "Congratulations on your propo. It was fantastic."

"Oh, thank you," says Heavensbee. He looks flustered, but I doubt it's because I'm complimenting his work. "That's actually why I was coming to check on you. I'd heard you had a bad reaction to the first one."

"Yes, well, it's quite a powerful message isn't it? In fact, we had to turn it off because the images kind of upset Katniss," I give her a sympathetic look and take her hand, squeezing it in my own. A reminder. "But she's better now. And so am I. Thank you for your concern." I let go of her hand.

"Yes, thank you," she says.

"It's no trouble at all," Fulvia replies, smiling breezily. She and Heavensbee share a significant look of relief. I can feel Katniss's eyes on my face, but I don't dare turn to look at her. Just barely, I shake my head.

"Well, we'd better get going," Heavensbee says, stepping out. "Great job, Katniss. You really touched the heart of every rebel across Panem with your performance."

And then they leave.

Katniss looks at me. I look at her.

"Is he right, Finnick?" she whispers. "They've lied to me before. Who's to say they haven't been lying to me this whole time? How much do I really know?"

"It's hard to say. But we're going to find out more." I take her hand again, this time as genuine comfort. "I know you might not think it means much, coming from me, but I promise you this. We're going to find out _exactly_ what's going on."

* * *

><p><strong>Short chapter, but now there's some action! This show is on the road!<strong>


	58. M: District Thirteen: The Warning

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **T**he** W**arning

* * *

><p>I'm still in the hospital wing the next day when Katniss taps me on the shoulder and asks me if I want to go outside with her.<p>

"Outside where?" I reply.

"Outside. You know, trees and dirt and grass and things," Katniss says. "To hunt with me. Only if you're up for it. Usually I go with Gale, but he's doing something with Beetee, so Coin gave me permission to take you instead."

"I think is the first time I've been a woman's second choice," I say.

Katniss raises an eyebrow at me. "Your ego will recover. Do you want to or not?"

I accept her offer and the next thing I know Katniss has a bow and a quiver of arrows in her hands and we're heading up to the surface. I have only been outside a few times since arriving at District Thirteen. It's a wooded area surrounded by a fence, chirping and buzzing with wildlife. We walk until we're far enough to talk freely, then Katniss guides me over to a fallen tree and we sit on the decaying trunk.

"Have they mentioned Peeta to you yet?" she inquires.

"I haven't heard one word about it. No one's told you anything?" Katniss shakes her head. I frown, because I'd assumed that by now Gale would have at least said something. But when I mention him, Katniss denies it. I can tell she's upset that he would withhold something like this from her, so I say, "Maybe he's trying to find a time to tell you privately."

"Maybe," Katniss says. But we both know that if Gale was going to tell her about Peeta's broadcast, he would have done it by now.

I close my eyes and listen to the life around me. It's beautiful, the vast diversity of animals here in these woods. District Thirteen is so uniform that it's easy to forget there's another world out here where not everything is shades of gray.

I open my eyes when I _feel_ rather than hear Katniss move beside me, silently notching an arrow and drawing it back. She aims at a buck that has wandered into our midst, and with lethal grace lets it fly. It hits the buck right in the eye, sending the poor creature's legs buckling from underneath it.

I'm almost pleased to find that it doesn't bother me. A month ago it would have. Now, after everything that's happened in just these few days, I have bigger things to worry about than a dead deer. After seeing that propo where Katniss shot down the Capitol aircrafts, a deer seems like such an insignificant thing.

We don't have anything else to do or talk about here, so I drag the buck back to the fence. That night we have venison in our stew, and it's the best meal I've eaten since we arrived.

Fulvia finds me in the hospital later that evening when I'm savoring every bite of the stew. She tells me that they are preparing for another string of propos, since the footage from District Eight is stale, and Heavensbee wants me to participate. "You won't have to go anywhere or fight anyone," she assures. "Tomorrow we're just going to show you some pictures and all you have to do is tell us what you think of them. We're calling it _We Remember_. All of the past victors and some other familiar faces are involved. I came to tell you personally, since I know you're always forgetting to look at your schedule."

I thank her and then all night I worry about what pictures they're going to show me.

It turns out that _We Remember_ happens in a plain room with nothing more than a table and two chairs. I'm piled in with Fulvia, a woman named Cressida who will interview me, and two identical men with cameras. One introduces himself as Castor and his brother as Pollux. They sit me down in a chair and, after Katniss's tattooed prepper smooths down my hair and covers the dark spots under my eyes ("It's a pleasure to work on you, it's always been a dream of mine"), Cressida offers me a seat and we begin. There's nothing but two glasses of water and a folder on the table.

"So, Finnick," she says. I'm immediately distracted by the flashing silver marble on her tongue. "We're here today to discuss your home. You're from District Four, correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"The seafood district, am I right? What's it like there?"

"It's beautiful," I say with a pang of homesickness. "There's nothing but miles and miles of beaches and water, and ships on the horizon. It always smells like fish on the docks, but most of it gets shipped almost immediately to the Capitol, so there's only a little bit of a lingering stench in the market and on the streets. Until my first Hunger Games I lived on a boat with my father. We were lucky to own our own boat. Most of the time sailors have to rent them from the Capitol, and by the time they're done fishing, the money they got goes back in to the boat. After my father died, the boat was repossessed and destroyed, so I lived in Victor's Village. I still went out into town a lot, though. I love it there. The ocean is my home."

Cressida nods at me like she understands. She directs her attention to the camera. "That is the District Four Finnick Odair knows and loves. Now, District Four is in a state of rioting; all because the Capitol wouldn't let sailors make their own living. District Four continues to battle against their oppression." She turns again to me, fingers brushing the folder. "Finnick, I'm going to show you some photographs of what District Four looks like now."

My stomach drops as my worst nightmares are confirmed. I don't know if I'm ready for this, but I know that I'm going through with it. Cressida gives me a measured look. _You can back out of this any time you want to_, she seems to say. _We're not live_.

"I'm ready," I tell her.

She draws out the first photograph. It's a picture of a market street. All the stores are on fire, and people are fighting back white-clad Peacekeepers and their guns with tridents, spears, harpoons, nets, and blades. Under their feet are dead bodies splayed on the ground, familiar faces that I can't name but know by sight. "This is a riot," Cressida says softly, assessing my reaction. "This is how Peacekeepers handle it."

I feel bile rise up in my throat. It takes me a second to swallow it down, but I manage it. "That's terrible," I say. What else _is_ there to say?

The next is a series of three photographs in quick succession. The first is of a beautiful dark-haired woman struggling against a Peacekeeper. In the next, he's grabbed her black tresses and is holding her head under water. The last he's lifting her out, and she gasps for breath, her lovely red lips open in a silent scream, her hair slick to her skin, obscuring the rest of her face.

"I know her," I say, my fingertips brushing the photographs on the table in wonder. "That's Marina. She's a bartender in one of the local pubs that my father always went to."

"This happened because she fought when that Peacekeeper killed her husband in cold blood," Cressida explained solemnly.

I never liked Marina, particularly because she took advantage of the desperate men that frequented her bar, including my father, but I could never wish this on her. And her husband was a good man. Too good, because he always stood by his wife when rumors of her infidelity ran rampant. "Phillip's dead," I whisper, mostly to myself.

"That was her husband's name? Phillip?"

"Yes," I say, swallowing hard. "He was a good man. He didn't deserve to die. What happened to Marina after this?"

"I don't know," says Cressida. After a pause she takes the photographs and replaces them with another. This one is at the beach. Peacekeepers are shooting at three people by the shore. One person is already laying in the water, a cloud of blood around him. The other two are fleeing. One as a fish in his hands, but it's still alive and is getting ready to escape. "They aren't allowing anyone to fish. If Peacekeepers catch them, then they're shot. The Capitol is trying to starve out the poor citizens; but what else is new?"

I point to the man with the fish in his hands. "I went to school with him."

There are more photographs like this. Countless more. There's one with miles of water filled with nothing but belly-up fish and dead seaweed. "They poisoned the water to keep people from fishing," Cressida says. This fills me with unbelievable anger that they've tainted my pure ocean, and tears spring in my eyes. It's like a person has died.

There's more. Peacekeepers guarding the Justice Building, which is covered in rotten food and the dead fish. Another is of children throwing jagged seashells at the Peacekeepers as they pass, and the resulting punishment, which usually is similar to Marina's. There's one of a boat on fire, and I tell them about Quincy's funeral.

Cressida asks me if I want to stop after every one. I tell her no every time. When we get to the final photograph, tears are streaming down my face and I'm holding back sobs. When I look at this last one, though, I can't contain my cry of outrage. I stand up, taking the photograph in my hands. It's of Haro Mutch standing in front of Ethelinde, who looks absolutely terrified as Peacekeepers close in on her.

"What happened?!" I shout at Cressida. I point to them. "Tell me what happened here!"

"The man was defending the woman against Peacekeepers who were trying to take her into custody. She hadn't done anything," Cressida said. "That man is Haro Mutch, correct? The only victor besides Annie Cresta who remained behind for the Quarter Quell?"

"Yes, that's Haro," I say. "Mags, Nath, Ore, and I all left. Ore and Nath were both killed in the confusion in the Capitol after Katniss took down the force field. Haro stayed behind because he was the oldest. What happened to them?!"

Cressida takes one of my hands. Her's is pleasantly cool. "I'm sorry, Finnick. He died protecting that woman. He wouldn't go down without a fight."

I collapse back into my chair, covering my face. The photograph falls somewhere near my feet, but I know that they will edit it in later so the world can see it clearly. "Oh, gods. Oh gods." It seems like that's all I can say. "Oh gods."

"Will you tell us what he was like, Finnick?" Cressida coaxes, squeezing my hand. "Ore and Nath, too, if you feel comfortable."

"What happened to the woman?" I ask her, frantically trying to find the photograph. I pick it up and point. "Her? Where's she?"

"That…I think she was arrested and taken into custody," Cressida says, frowning. "Do you know her?"

"That is Ethelinde Cresta, Annie's mother," I say.

Cressida's eyes grow wide with horror. "Oh, my goodness. Finnick, I'm so sorry, I didn't know that was her—"

"What happened?!"

"I don't know, they just took her and Haro intervened—"

"And you just stood by and _watched_?!" I throw the photograph down on the table. "Who took this picture? Because whoever you are, you're just as responsible for whatever happens to her as the Capitol is!"

"Finnick!" Fulvia screeches, horrified. She looks at Castor and Pollux, who are equally shocked. "Cut that out of the footage immediately. That doesn't leave this room, do you understand?"

"Sure, censor it! But no matter what you do, this is still your fault." I take the photographs and fan them out in front of Fulvia's face. She flinches and turns a bit green under the silver flowers tattooed under her eye. "You should be trying to _prevent_ scenes like these, not sit there and _document_ them." I throw the photographs in the air and storm out of the room, leaving the four of them to clean up the mess I leave behind.

* * *

><p>I can't think of anywhere else to go, so I find Beetee. He's in his communications room, simultaneously rerunning propos all over the Districts and tweaking with some computer thing or another.<p>

"They're only doing their jobs, Finnick," Beetee tells me after I essentially throw a temper tantrum. "They can't go into a war zone and save everyone they see. They're journalists, not soldiers. Besides, even if they wanted to save Annie's mother, do you really think they could have? Haro was up against, what, five Peacekeepers? Ten? All of whom had guns. He was probably dead before they even registered what happened. After seeing that, would you have risked the same fate for a woman you don't even know?" Beetee plows on before I can answer with a lie. "Yes, standing up for Mrs. Cresta was the _right_ thing to do, but it wasn't the realistic thing. The best they can do is show the world what's going on so it doesn't happen to anyone else."

As usual, Beetee's point is more valid than mine, and I find my anger at Cressida and her crew evaporating. "You know, I hate it when you make me feel like a naïve child," I tell him.

"And yet you continue to come here when you need to vent," Beetee chuckles, raising an eyebrow at me. He places a cover on whatever he was working on with a satisfied sigh. "If it pleases you, Finnick, I think I've found a solution to our propo problem."

"What problem?"

"Well, we haven't been able to show the propos as often as we like because the Capitol keeps overriding our feed. In fact, I don't believe we've managed to get a single propo through to the Capitol at all. Hopefully this"—he points to whatever thing he was working on—"will be able to help us. We're going to try it out tonight."

"Why tonight?" I ask.

"Because the President is giving a live program tonight, and it will be very advantageous symbolically to interrupt it."

I frown at that. "I don't symbolic triumphs, Beetee. That's more Snow's thing. I like solid, affirmative victory where there is a decisive loser and winner."

"Unfortunately, that isn't the best way to boost rebel moral, display the power of our defiance, or alert sympathetic Capitolites to what's happening," Beetee counters. "Look, I know you're worried about Annie, but this is vital to our cause. President Snow isn't going to hurt her because of this."

"It's not Annie I'm worried about in this case," I say, scowling. "We're not the only people who can display our power through the media. The President has done it for years, and he's been ruthless and effective."

Beetee narrows his eyes at me for a moment. Then he sighs with disappointment. "You saw Peeta's latest interview, didn't you?"

"Katniss did, too," I admit.

"I anticipated as much," says Beetee. "We're doing all we can to get them back, but it's proving remarkably difficult. And…there's no telling when that was filmed, Finnick. There's no telling what Peeta's condition is."

"Or Johanna's," I blurt out. "Or Annie's. They could all be dead for all we know."

"No, they're not dead," Beetee snaps, slamming his open palm on the armrest of his wheelchair. I think it's the most passionate thing I've ever seen him do.

"How do you know?" I ask him.

And for once, Beetee doesn't have an answer for me.

"...Go down to Command," he says after a long pause, turning back to his blinking computers. "The live program is starting soon, and everyone will be down there. It's only right that you are too."

I do as he says, because he is clearly dismissing me, and who am I to defy him? I've obviously upset him, which wasn't my intention at all. It makes something very clear to me, though: that in some ways, Beetee is as naïve as I am. He is also clinging to the desperate hope that Peeta and Johanna and Annie are okay, though I honestly can't fathom why. He never particularly liked Johanna, and he only recently met Peeta. I can't even remember a time that he's met Annie. If I was a romantic, I'd say it is because they are important to Katniss and me. The more likely answer is that they are the most sure-fire way to get Katniss on board with Coin's plan. If Peeta's dead, then so is the Mockingjay and, with her, the revolution.

Command is already pretty full by the time I arrive. Plutarch Heavensbee waves me over, but doesn't let me sit in the seat next to him. "That's for Katniss," he says, motioning to the seat beside the one he's reserved.

Katniss is the last to arrive, along with Boggs. She sits between Heavensbee and me. Just then, the Capitol seal comes on the television as if triggered by her approach. "What's going on?" she asks cluelessly. "Aren't we seeing the Twelve propos?"

Heavensbee and I explain Beetee's experiment to her as the anthem rings through Command and the President appears, standing behind a podium. Peeta is in a chair off to the side. Physically his condition is the same, but his eyes are filled with vitriolic anger and his brow is dotted with beads of perspiration under his makeup. He taps a rhythmless beat with his foot, rapidly, unsteadily.

"He's worse," Katniss breathes. Her eyes fill with a sort of sad longing while her brow crinkles with worry. I grab her hand and she holds on tight.

"District Thirteen, rebels, Katniss, just _listen_ to me," Peeta begins. His voice is rushed and as angry as his eyes. "I know you're watching. You need to stop this chaos. Don't you see how you're making everything worse? All the destruction that is being caused needlessly? Only today, a dam broke in District Seven, flooding the forests and a village." Behind him, a glowing green dot appears in District Seven. I wonder if the dam was anywhere near where Johanna lived. I wonder if Johanna is even alive. She hasn't been in any of the propos, and she doesn't have any family or friends who really care for her – no one but me. And she is dispensable in the President's eyes as long as he has Annie for bait. I can only hope that she's smart enough to pretend like she knows something so they'll keep her alive. Then I remember what that implies, and I hope she's smart enough to claim she knows nothing so they'll kill her. No one deserves to live under those circumstances.

Peeta continues to talk about tragedies happening in the districts, all because of rebel action, of course, when suddenly he is replaced by footage of Katniss standing in the rubble of a bakery.

Heavensbee jumps to his feet beside us. "He did it! Beetee broke in!"

The room erupts into cheers. Peeta appears on the screen again, looking dazed at his interruption. He stutters, and just like that I'm talking on the screen, sometime during the _We Remember_ session. Peeta replaces me, Katniss replaces Peeta, and the whole thing dissolves into second-long exchanges of video between Beetee and the Capitol tech masters. Katniss and I are the motionless eye in a hurricane of celebration all around us. We can't find it in ourselves to cheer. Not at this.

There's some static, and then the Capitol seal is on for a while before the chaotic studio comes back. The President is finishing directing orders at someone behind the scenes. He turns to the camera, looking the angriest I've ever seen him on air. "I apologize, viewers, but it seems the rebels are attempting to disrupt our transmission. Don't worry, we will resume with the full broadcast once it is secure to do so. Truth and justice will prevail." He gives Peeta a look. "Mr. Mellark, do you have any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen?"

"Katniss…" Peeta says, his face screwing up as though thinking hard. "How do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol, not in the districts. And you…in Thirteen…" He gasps for breath like some invisible force is choking him, then manages to blurt out, "Dead by morning!"

The President's voice booms, "End it!" Beetee is back, flashing still shots of Katniss in District Eight. In between each shot we see glimpses of what's going on in the Capitol. Peeta trying to speak but suffocating on his words; white tile when the camera's knocked down; Peeta's cry of pain; blood staining the clean white tiles.

Katniss's fingernails dig painfully into my hand as she lurches forward. For a second I'm afraid she'll vomit or scream, but she only stares at the blank television screen in profound horror. Her face is as white as the underbelly of a shark. I can't even think of anything to say to her.

I was right. President Snow is the master of symbolic victories.

Once again we find ourselves in silence while everyone is a flurry of motion. Only this time, they're not cheering. They're trying to figure out what Peeta's last words meant.

"Shut up!" Haymitch roars. His voice echoes powerfully through the room, silencing everyone. It's clear that when Haymitch talks, he's used to being heard, and not without good reason. He's usually got something pretty important to say. "It's not some big mystery! The boy's telling us we're about to be attacked. Here, in Thirteen."

When the frantic people start to sputter out more questions and doubts, Haymitch only glares at them. "They're beating him bloody while we speak," he says darkly. "What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!"

"Haymitch is right," Katniss says immediately, yanking herself away from the television. She stands up, letting go of my hand. There are five little red crescents on it. One of them is dripping blood. "I don't know where Peeta got the information, or if it's true. But he believes it is. And they're—" She cuts herself off, swallowing the words.

"You don't know him," Haymitch concludes, gazing at Coin as he says it. "We do. Get your people ready."

Coin purses her lips. Unlike most of us, she's taken this all in with a fair amount of poise. If anything, she's simply puzzled. "Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario," she begins. "Although we have decades of support for such assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol's cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks."

"You think so?" Haymitch says with just a hint of sarcasm.

"I do," Coin agrees, either oblivious or intolerant to his brand of insolence. "At any rate, we're overdue for a Level Five security drill. Let's proceed with the lockdown." She types something into a keyboard, and then the sirens begin. The sound feels like a hatchet coming down on my skull, again and again. Everyone files out of Command with relative calm. Boggs guides Katniss and me down a long corridor and down flights and flights of stairs, so many that I can feel the pressure difference in my eyes and ears like I've swam too deep underwater. With each flight of stairs the pitch and volume of the siren becomes more bearable.

Once we arrive to the cavern, a big underground structure made of a medley of stone and steel specialized for circumstances like a bomb threat or contagion, I turn to look at Katniss's face, to see if she's hit it yet. To see if she's given into the madness, if she's just let herself finally fall apart.

She hasn't. She looks around the cavern for her family and her face is still white as a sheet, but I can see that steady light of sanity in her gaze. There is depression, but not madness. Katniss, for the most part, is still whole. She doesn't need a rope to hold her together. She's fractured, maybe, but not broken, not shattered.

Not yet.

* * *

><p><strong>A chapter long overdue, but the length and events make up for it, don't you think? :) My life is pretty busy at the moment; I had to work until midnight last night to even finish this. Ugh. Obsession sucks.<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	59. M: District Thirteen: Bunking

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **B**unking

* * *

><p>I leave Katniss and wander around until I find my room, which is really a six-by-six cubicle just big enough to fit a cot and a few other personal items. On a hollowed-out cube used for storage, there is a laminated sheet of instructions labeled <em>Bunker Protocol.<em> With a sigh, I pick it up and read it.

_1. Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for._

Considering there is just one cot, this compartment probably belongs to me. I'm not completely opposed to the idea. There's no way I'm going to get lonely, considering I am one of the first arrivals and yet I can already hear the steady drone of chatter around me. By the time all of District Thirteen is safely tucked away, we'll probably all be packed in here like sardines. There will be no such thing as "lonely".

_2. Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s)._

I skip down to number three, deciding that I'll get the pack later.

_3. Await further instructions._

Well. That's helpful.

The line for the Supply Station is brief, and within moments I'm back in my compartment with a pack containing the basic necessities: a mattress, bedding, clothes, a flashlight, a comb. I make my bed and lay down on it, staring up at the cavernous ceiling and trying to let the timbre of people's voices lull me to sleep. It doesn't work. My eyelids won't close. That probably has something to do with the blaring sirens.

Eventually those are shut off, and Coin's voice replaces them, echoing through the bunker. "I commend you, denizens of District Thirteen, for your exemplary evacuation of the upper levels of the compound. This is _not_ a drill. Earlier this evening, Peeta Mellark, captive District Twelve Victor, possibly made a televised reference to an attack on District Thirteen. It is in everyone's best interest to remain calm, find your compartment in an orderly fashion, and follow the instructions located in the "On Arrival" section of the _Bunker Protocol _pamphlet. I repeat, this is _not_ a drill. Remain calm. Await further instructions. Thank you."

Ten minutes later, I hear the first bomb.

It's like thunder during the climax of a storm, the kind that comes right after a white-hot streak of lightning, the kind that you physically brace yourself for. The kind that rattles your house, your bones, your everything. But instead of rain against the roof, after it's over I hear almost absolute silence in the darkness.

Shouldn't someone be screaming? Isn't that what usually happens when a bomb goes off? Screaming, panic? _Something_?

But no. The next noticeable sound is the hum of the generators activating, and then the bunker begins to glow softly. Murmurs rise around me in little tides, so if I close my eyes I can almost pretend I'm floating on the surface of the ocean.

Coin's voice interrupts my attempt at finding peace. "Apparently, Peeta Mellark's information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude," she announces, as if that isn't already obvious to everyone. She doesn't sound particularly thrilled, either. "Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas until otherwise notified."

_They're big on this 'until further notice' thing_, I think to myself. _What if no further notice comes? Would people wait forever?_

With Thirteen, who knew? They might.

I think I fall asleep, because I only wake up when someone shakes my shoulder and tells me that it's time to take a shower and such. I blink a few times before I realize it's Katniss's mother, dressed in her white medical clothes.

"Did you hear me, Finnick?" she asks gently.

"Yes, ma'am," I yawn. "Thank you for coming to tell me."

"It's no problem at all. I know that Katniss also has…trouble with attention, sometimes. I didn't want you to get left behind."

"Thank you," I repeat, smiling at her. She returns it with a small, quick lift of her lips and goes back to work. I watch her go, and something stabs me in the chest. She reminds me of Ethelinde, who is now in the custody of Peacekeepers in District Four, who is now dead or dying, probably. Like her daughter.

I grit my teeth against the tears, but they spill onto my cheeks anyway. "Haven't you tormented them enough already?" I look up and pretend that President Snow's face is looking down at me.

When I take a timed, five-minute shower, I pretend that the water running down my face isn't from my eyes. So does everyone else.

* * *

><p>We're in the bunker for three days.<p>

To me, they're not much different from my days before Katniss agreed to be the Mockingjay. I pretty much spend them holed up in my cubicle, knotting my rope. Sometimes I sleep. I eat and shower when I'm told. When the four other bombs go off, I curl up and try to ignore them. It never works, but at least it's not for lack of trying.

I'm tying my rope one night when Katniss crawls into my cubicle. Her eyes are wide and feverishly bright with something like discovery, and her hair is out of its customary braid, splashing across her shoulders and down her back in dark waves. She rapidly whispers to me in the dimness while my fingers work the rope.

"I've figured it out," she tells me. "I've figured out why the President is doing all this with Peeta. The broadcasts, the torture, the rose, everything. He's not doing it because he thinks that Peeta knows something. He's doing it because of _me_. He knows it's driving me crazy. And he won't kill him. He knows that once he does that, he doesn't have leverage to control me, to drive me crazy or break me. I figured it out. He's torturing Peeta _because of me_."

By the time she's finished I've stopped knotting the rope and I'm looking at her. Her voice cracks at this last part, but she meets my gaze and her eyes are dry. She blinks slowly at me, once, twice, and then her lips part with yet another epiphany.

"This is what they're doing to you with Annie, isn't it?"

"Well," I sigh, "they didn't arrest her because they thought she'd be a wealth of rebel information. They know I'd never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection." The words are bitter on my tongue.

"Oh, Finnick," Katniss breathes. "I'm so sorry."

"No, I'm sorry that I didn't warn you somehow."

"You did warn me though," Katniss insists. "On the hovercraft. Only when you said they'd use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow."

_I did mean like bait_, I think_. But to lure you into madness, not the Capitol_. Out loud I tell her, "I shouldn't have said even that. It was too late for it to help you. Since I hadn't warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should've shut up about how Snow operates. It's just…I didn't understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you'd continue that strategy. But it wasn't until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I—"

I stop, biting my lip. Will this help her at all? By the blank look on her face, she hasn't a clue that she loves Peeta, not the way she really does. Oh, sure, she knows that she _cares_ about him, she knows that it's her fault he's in this mess, but she hasn't yet dug up the roots of those feelings. Will bringing it to light make her suffering worse?

"That you what?" Katniss inquires.

I decide that I'm done hiding things from Katniss. Especially things about herself. I think that she's one of the few people, besides Annie and Ethelinde and Johanna, that I can truly call a friend. "That I knew I'd misjudged you," I say. "That you do love him. I'm not saying in what way. Maybe you don't know yourself, but anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him."

It takes her a while to digest this. I focus on my knots, giving her space, watching the gears turn in my peripheral vision. Eventually she licks her lips and speaks again.

"How do you bear it?"

This question is so preposterous that I drop my rope. "I don't, Katniss!" I exclaim. "Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking." The look she gives me is utter hopelessness. I can almost see her gray eyes beginning to fracture. I sigh and pick up my rope, deciding that I should probably offer her some advice instead of confirming her fears. "Better not to give into it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

Annie is a prime example. It took her only a few minutes to fall apart, and ten years later she's still not entirely whole. After this is over, maybe it will take even longer. We'll have to put each other back together. I won't be there to do all the heavy lifting.

"The more you can distract yourself, the better," I say. I look down at my rope, my distraction, my Focus, and offer it to her. "First thing tomorrow, we'll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine."

She does, a bit reluctantly. "Don't you need it?"

"You need to keep it together," I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I've already lost too many pieces to hope for that. But don't worry. I'm keeping track of where they are."

I don't know if that makes sense to her. But she nods her head and leaves. That night is one of the worst of my life. When I wake up covered in a cold sweat, I don't have anything to grasp. I don't have anything else to focus on but what the President might be doing to Annie, or what the Peacekeepers might be doing to Ethelinde, or what happened to Johanna. I retreat into the farthest corner of my cubicle and I hide behind my pillow, gripping it in my hands, compulsively working my fingers in the soft cotton. I pretend it's the President's neck, and I strangle him.

In the morning, I spot Katniss walking with Boggs. Her fingers are blistered, she's got bags under her eyes, but the rope hangs in her grasp. When I join them at Boggs's request, she hands it to me, a new determined set to her mouth and chin. "Thank you," she says. The determination hasn't quite reached her eyes, but it's there on her face, and that's what matters.

Boggs leads Katniss, Gale and me down to a room that looks a lot like Command. It's been more than a day since the last bomb, so Coin's called the all-clear and people are pouring out of the bunker. The top levels of the compound are destroyed, along with a lot of people's homes, but everyone's alive. That's the important thing.

Coin, Heavensbee, Haymitch, and Cressida and her crew are all around the table in the new Command room, looking as tired as I feel. I grow a little weak in the knees when I smell coffee. It's a commodity I haven't had the privilege of indulging in what feels like forever, and after the hellish night in the bunker, it's exactly what I need.

"We need all of you," Coin says without preamble, pointing to all of us in turn, "suited up and aboveground. You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen's military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?"

I raise my hand. My mind is only on one thing. "Can we have a coffee?"

Coin rolls her eyes, Haymitch and Cressida both crack a smile, and Heavensbee is all too happy to oblige. He's probably as deprived of caffeine as I am. Whenever I went to the Capitol for my visits, I lived on the stuff. Although that was premium roast drowned in flavored creams, sugars, and syrups, I'll take whatever I can get.

I pour some plain cream into the black, bitter liquid, my mouth watering in anticipation. As I'm reaching for sugar cubes I notice that Katniss is frowning at her cup, seemingly waging a mental debate in her mind. No doubt she hasn't been exposed to coffee as often as the rest of us, and is skeptical of its side-effects. Not to mention the taste.

Shaking my head, I slosh some cream into her cup and offer her the sugar bowl first. Then I repeat the first four words I ever said to her, in the same seductive voice I used before. "Want a sugar cube?"

She grins, to my delight. I can't help but smile back, and I drop three into her coffee, adding another three to my own. "Here, it improves the taste."

I sip my coffee while the prep team works on me. I don't have a fancy suit like Katniss, but they erase the bags from my eyes and smooth down some of my rough edges. Somewhere they find a razor and shave my face for me. I hadn't realized I'd grown a beard.

The caffeine kicks in quick, and by the time we're climbing to the outside I'm feeling much better. The air is deliciously cool and fresh after the hot stuffiness of the bunker, and rustles the dry leaves of the trees. Katniss asks what day it is. Boggs tells her it is September. It has been nearly a month and a half since the Quarter Quell.

We walk through the wreckage, around the giant craters that the bombs created. Castor and Pollux make sure to get good shots of us weaving through them. All five craters are about the size of small lakes.

"Anyone on the first ten levels would have been killed," Boggs remarks, peering down into the depths of the first crater we encounter. Beetee, then, would have died. And probably Katniss's family too.

"Can you rebuild it?" Gale asks.

"Not anytime soon."

"How much of an edge did the boy's warning give you?" Haymitch inquires.

"About ten minutes before our own systems would've detected the missiles," Boggs says, which doesn't even begin to remotely answer Haymitch's question.

"But it did help, right?" Katniss asks.

"Absolutely. Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you're under attack." Boggs gives Katniss a soft look, a nonverbal reassurance. "Ten minutes meant lives saved."

We continue walking until we pass the remains of Thirteen's Justice Building, which is near a crater but still standing somehow. "Katniss, let's film you in front of it," Cressida suggests. "The Capitol's been using it as a backdrop for years to show that we don't exist anymore. Let's rub it in their faces that we do."

Gale hesitates at the front gates, frowning. "What's that?" he asks, pointing at something. We all stop and look at it. Bright blotches of red and pink are scattered all over the ground, mingling with the leaves and rubble. At closer inspection, I realize they're roses.

"Don't touch them!" Katniss cries out, holding the cameramen back as they move forward to get a shot. "They're for me."

"How do you know?" Boggs asks.

"When I went to District Twelve last time, there was a white rose on my dresser. It was a message from the President. This is too." Her face is white, and she's shaking. "The white rose was to tell me he could get me. It was in his suit. These roses say something different. They're like the ones on the set when Peeta and I did our second interview for our first Games."

No one has to ask what the message here is.

Boggs pulls a handkerchief over his face and approaches the roses. I can smell them all the way over here, sweet and cloying. The scent burns my nose. He nudges them, counts them, inspects them. "There are two dozen," he reports, looking at Katniss to see if that will mean anything to her. "Genetically modified to last long and smell like this, probably, but I don't think they're dangerous."

With that, we continue with our original plans. I can tell this has rattled Katniss, though. She won't stop shaking. "What exactly do you need from me, again?" she asks Cressida. She looks very alone in front of the Justice Building, under the scrutiny of the cameras.

"Just a few quick lines that show you're alive and still fighting."

There's a pause, then Katniss says, "I'm sorry, I've got nothing."

Cressida coaxes her into answering questions instead while she blots the nervous sweat off of Katniss's face. She's still shaking in her Mockingjay suit. She looks at me for reassurance when Cressida walks away. I give her a thumbs-up, but after remembering how my last interview with Cressida went, I don't know how convincing it is.

"So, Katniss," the director begins. "You've survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?"

"We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen's alive and well and so am—" She chokes up like she's forgotten how to say the words.

"Try the line again," Cressida says gently. Katniss can't get it out a second time, either. "Just this one line and you're done today. I promise."

Katniss opens her mouth to start the line…

…and bursts into tears.

I hang my head and resist the temptation to cover my ears against her sobs. I know what tears mean. I've shed enough of them.

"What's wrong with her?" Heavensbee asks.

I resist punching him in the face, and instead I say, "She's figured out how Snow's using Peeta."

And then I go over and hug her. Because what else can you do when someone's breaking except try to hold them together?

Cressida, Gale, and the twins join me, but Katniss only responds to one person. She squeaks out his name, and then Haymitch is there. The rest of us leave it up to him.

Her voice gets louder and louder, until finally she screams, "It's all my fault!" and dissolves into such hysteria that Heavensbee hands Haymitch a needle and he has to knock her out.

I hate seeing her like this.

"Um…Finnick?" Cressida whispers, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

I realize that I've started crying now. I start to nod, then shake my head, because I can't stand lying about it. "No," I say. "No, I'm not alright. I hate this! Why can't anyone do anything about this!"

"About…about what—?"

"The President!" I shout. "Katniss is the only thing I have left! She may only be the Mockingjay to you, but to me she's the only thing that the President hasn't taken from me! And I'll be damned if I'm going to let him do it now!"

"Finnick, calm down—"

"I will not calm down! He's taken everything! My home, my sanity, my father, Johanna, Mags, Annie – everything that's ever been important to me! If you'd known – the things he's made me do—"

"Someone get a sedative over here!" Cressida is grabbing my hands, trying to hold me still so that they can shoot me up with whatever they've given Katniss. Part of me only wants to go to sleep, to embrace it; the other part is afraid. Just afraid.

I think I start screaming for Annie as they poke the needle in my arm. The last thing I see is Gale's face as he holds down my shoulders – somehow I'm on the ground – and the reflection of myself in his eyes.

I see a madman.

And then I see nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Spring break! Woot! I just got back from traveling around, so there might be another update this week. Maybe. Who knows? Anyway, things are just starting to get good. I think you all know what happens next! *wink wink, nudge nudge*<strong>

**In other news, I went to the movies the other day, and I saw...posters! Movie posters for the upcoming _Catching Fire_ movie, to be exact. I died a little bit. Can't. Freaking. Wait. **

**November. Ugh. It hurts.**


	60. M: District Thirteen: Reunion

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **R**eunion

* * *

><p>For a few hours, I find something like peace.<p>

It's the drugs they gave me. They're tranquilizers, not sedatives, so I'm not imprisoned in the chambers of my own mind. I don't think I'm even really sleeping. I'm in a trance, everything is distant and fuzzy and surreal, but I'm okay with it. The tranquilizers muffle reality, including pain, fear, panic, horror, and all the other things I've lived with lately.

So when Katniss shakes my shoulder until I wake up, I'm not very pleased with her. I try to tell her to go away and leave me alone, but she persists until I sit up and give her my full, if irritated, attention.

"What do you _want_, Katniss?" I ask.

"They've gone, Finnick," she says. "They've gone to the Capitol. Gale and Boggs and their team. They've gone to the Capitol to rescue Peeta and Annie."

I blink at her, trying to figure out what drugs they've given her that they haven't let me have. Then I realize that she's completely serious, and she's also completely terrified.

"That's great," I say, smiling. "What are you so upset about?"

"What if they don't make it back?" Katniss whispers, almost so quietly I can't hear her. Like she's afraid that if she brings attention to the fact, it will come true.

"Don't you see, Katniss, this will decide things. One way or the other, by the end of the day, they'll either be dead or with us," I tell her. "It's…it's more than we could hope for!"

How long have I wished that Annie's suffering would end? That my uncertainty would disappear? Today, in the blink of an eye, it's going to happen. For better or worse, it's going to happen.

Haymitch yanks back the curtain before we can digest this, eyeing us with that critical, piercing gaze of his. "I've got a job for you two, if you can pull it together," he says. "They still need footage of you guys up on the surface, since you botched it yesterday. If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol's attention elsewhere."

"Yes, a distraction. A decoy of sorts," I agree.

"What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won't be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?"

Oh, yeah. I've got that. The real question is whether I can bring it.

Katniss and I eat a fast breakfast and get prepped, and are heading up to the surface by the hour. We weave our way back to the place where we ended last time, the Justice Building. Katniss will start. She looks better than yesterday, more determined to get it right, less shaken up. Cressida also takes a different approach to the interview.

"How did you meet Peeta?" is her first question.

Katniss sits down on a fallen marble pillar and tells this story:

"When I met Peeta, I was eleven years old, and I was almost dead. It was a few weeks after an explosion in the mines that killed my father. My mother wasn't functioning. She was heartbroken over his death. It was up to me to feed her and my little sister, Prim. It was the end if winter, though, so there wasn't much I could do. We didn't have any money and I hadn't yet gained the courage to venture out into the forest alone to hunt. That was always something I did with my father.

"I was going to the Hob – the black market in District Twelve – to try and sell some of Prim's old baby clothes. No one wanted them. On my way home, I collapsed under a tree beside the bakery. It was raining. I was cold, and hungry, and utterly defeated. All I wanted in that moment was something to eat. Peeta noticed me curled up under the tree outside his father's bakery, and purposely burned some bread. His stepmother was furious and slapped him. I'm sure he knew that she would, but he did it anyway. When she told him to go give their hogs the burned bread, he threw the loaves to me. He was very careful only to burn the outside so that my family and I could eat the insides. In my weakest moment, he was there for me. We had never spoken. The first time I ever talked to Peeta was on the train to the Games."

"He was already in love with you," Cressida said.

"I guess so," Katniss replies with a small smile.

Of course he was. Only someone like Peeta would chose a starving, defeated girl curled up next to his house to fall in love with. It was noble. It was romantic. And it was so, so incredibly naïve.

"How are you handling separation?"

"Not well. I know at any moment Snow could kill him, especially since he warned Thirteen about the bombing. It's a terrible thing to live with. But because of what they're putting him through, I don't have any reservations anymore. About doing whatever it takes to destroy the Capitol. I'm finally free." Katniss looks up at a distant point in the sky, engrossed in her own confessions. "President Snow once admitted to me that the Capitol was fragile. At the time, I didn't know what he meant. It was hard to see clearly because I was so afraid. Now I'm not. The Capitol's fragile because it depends on the districts for everything. Food, energy, even the Peacekeepers that police us. If we declare our freedom, the Capitol collapses. President Snow, thanks to you, I'm officially declaring mind today."

It's a pretty speech. The bread story is sincere and heartwarming, and will reach out the Capitolites, since they are already so invested in the star-crossed lovers angle. The message to Snow – that's what will touch the districts, if we can get it out to them.

"That was very good, Katniss," Cressida says warmly. Heavensbee touches my shoulder and motions for Haymitch to join us on the fringes of the group. He has that slightly crazed, inspired look in his eye, which is almost never beneficial for anyone involved.

"That was good, but we need better," he says to us in a frantic whisper, the gears turning in his head. "Katniss is right – we shouldn't have any reservations anymore. We need to bring everything to the surface if this is going to work."

My stomach sinks. Haymitch scowls. "Plutarch, I know what you're going to say, and the answer is no," he snarls. "You are not putting this boy through that."

"Just think about it," Heavensbee says. He's given up on Haymitch's support and has his sights set on me, just me. "I know that your…services to the Capitol will be hard to talk about, Finnick, but like I said, we're going to need more than just Katniss's bread story if the rescue mission is going to go successfully. You can give us all the material we need to make sure it runs as smoothly as possible, and that everyone gets out alive."

"Plutarch!" Haymitch snaps. "Don't you think we've manipulated his feelings enough already? Think about what you're asking him to – "

"I'll do it."

Haymitch is baffled at my interruption, and quickly tries to talk me out if it. "Don't listen to what he's telling you, Finnick. Even if you don't do this, we'll have plenty of footage to distract the Capitol. You don't have any responsibility here."

"Yes, I do. You can't know that we have enough. It's better to have too much than too little," I say. At this point I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince myself or Haymitch.

"We don't have too little. We have just enough," he practically hisses.

"The boy has decided, Haymitch," Heavensbee says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He looks at me again, not quite mastering a somber mask to cover his excitement. "Are you ready, Finnick?"

I feel bile rise up my throat, so I just nod and head over to take Katniss's spot in front of the camera. "You don't have to do this," Haymitch reminds me one last time.

"Yes, I do, if it will help her," I repeat. I turn my attention to Heavensbee. "I'm ready."

And then I open the flood gates.

I tell them everything. I explain what I am and what I do. I give them gruesome examples. I reveal all the secrets I've collected over the years, the crimes and indecencies of a corrupt society whose rotten foundation is camouflaged by fresh coats of shiny paint. I clue them in on the deepest regrets of every official, of every celebrity, down to the President himself. I share things that I've never even shared with anyone, the things that I've sheltered Annie from since I've known her, the things that have made Johanna so bitter and angry at the world, the things that haunted Mags until the very end. I give them everything I can bare to give.

In some ways it's liberating. I find that with every story my chest feels a little bit lighter, like I'm unpacking the shame and the sorrow I've jammed into my heart and sealed up tight. Once I break the seal, things just keep pouring out until I feel like I'm floating, like I'm an entity separate from my body. I wonder if that's what freedom feels like.

At the same time, it's the most vulnerable moment of my life. I'm dissected, I'm probed, I'm violated with every pulse of the blinking red light on the camera. I'm trapped in the lens. I'm scrutinized by those around me as I tell my story, and I know that they will never look at me with the same eyes again. Panem will never see me in the same light after they see the footage. In this moment my identity as Finnick Odair, handsome playboy of District Four, is terminated. Now Finnick, just Finnick, will begin to write his own chapters.

It's liberation, imprisonment, death, and birth all wrapped up into one big confession, and by the time I'm finished everyone is so utterly shocked or transfixed by it that I'm the one who has to say, "Cut."

After that, the crew snaps back into attention and goes to edit the material. They should have enough of it now. Plutarch is talking to me, but I don't really hear what he says. I'm still floating somewhere up in the sky, out of earshot. I'm not sure if it's because I'm empty or free.

We go back down to District Thirteen, where Katniss and I are informed that we've done everything we can do and that all that's left to do is wait. We find ways to occupy ourselves. Tie knots, lunch, blowing things up in the shooting range all inclusive. Then we watch Beetee's viral battle, and I listen to myself speak on camera. It's almost as bad as the initial shoot.

After an hour of this, Beetee throws up his hands and declares victory with a grin. Or something like it. "If they're not out of there by now," he says, "they're all dead."

Not exactly the most reassuring words to come out of Beetee's mouth, but strangely enough they have almost a calming effect on my raging nerves. Because if Beetee is confident enough about it to joke, then everything must be okay.

Unless he's not joking.

"It was a good plan, though," he continues, spinning in his chair to look at Katniss and me. "Did Plutarch show it to you?"

We both shake our heads, and Beetee shows us the blueprints of the escape. It's an elaborate scheme with a lot of outside resources, sophisticated weaponry, and several simultaneous disruptions.

"It's so confusing," Katniss remarks.

"That's good," says Beetee. "If you find the plan hard to follow, then our enemies will too."

"Like your electricity trap in the arena?"

"Exactly. And see how well that worked out?"

Katniss and I share a look, and I know that neither of us can see how well Beetee's electricity trap worked out. But we don't say anything.

"Let's go to Command," Katniss suggests after we're done talking to Beetee. It's a good idea – we'll be able to get quick updates on the rescue there – but we don't have the clearance to enter because of 'serious war business.' We're demoted to Special Defense and are directed to sit in Beetee's hummingbird room and wait for news.

Immediately it becomes apparent that this is a grave mistake. All there is to do in the hummingbird room is make knots. And more knots. And more knots. I make knots with Katniss until our fingers are raw and bleeding. I make knots until I can't take the silence anymore, the crushing silence of the hummingbird room and the pain in my swollen red fingers, and I find my nose buried in the rich soil, in the green grass, curled up in a ball while Katniss is still hunched over her rope.

Once she asks me, "Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?"

I remember asking myself this question once, as I watched her walk away for what I thought was the last time. "No," I tell Katniss. I think about Annie's unbelievable victory, the torment she underwent as a victor, her insidious madness. She was my first survivor, and that's what made her so special in my heart. She gave me hope for the future, a hope that had slowly been fading away, and I thought it was the least I could do to take care of her. Honestly, I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I fell in love with Annie – I'd always just understood her needs, her fears, and I was always the only one capable of soothing them. Somewhere along the way she began to do the same for me. I don't know when. Maybe it was a gradual thing.

So I add, "She crept up on me," to my previous statement and leave it at that. Thankfully Katniss doesn't ask me any more questions. She sits still and silent beside me until Haymitch walks in and tells us that they're back.

I don't hear anything after that. I can't move. It's like my world stops with those two little words. Katniss takes my hand and helps me up, and everything moves in slow motion as she guides me through Special Defense and to the hospital. They're in the hospital. Annie hates hospitals.

Reality is brought back into full speed when we reach the hospital. It's impossible for it to move any slower with the sheer capacity of patients inside. Doctors are shouting orders at nurses, nurses are recklessly wheeling patients around, patients are groaning in agony or relief. I have to blink the motion away from my eyes in order to see anything clearly.

Then I hear a sound. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard, a sound that has and will forever occupy that place in my memory. It's a sound that, if I'm being honest with myself, I never believed I would hear again until now.

"Finnick!"

I turn around and squint through the motion until I see her, and I don't even hesitate before my feet are propelling me toward her, to touch her, to breathe her into me, to make sure that she's real. She's also racing toward me, mindless of those around her. We meet in the middle, crashing into one another, and I feel my heart stop with joy as my arms wrap around her and it hits me – she's real. She's here, she's alive, she's real, she's here. She's _here_.

My knees buckle partly because she didn't slow down before tackling me – but then again, she never does – and partly because this realization hits me so hard. It takes my breath away. There is absolutely nothing graceful about the way we fall to the ground in a jumbled heap. It doesn't matter, I can feel her warm, soft body against mine under the thin fabric of the sheet she's wearing, and I can feel her breathing and her heart racing. I can feel her arms around my neck, her lips on my neck, her cold nose brushing my jaw. I can smell her hair, I can twist it around in my fingers, I can kiss it over and over again. I can touch her back, her slim waist. I can hear her powerful sobs, I can feel them as they rack her body and her tears splatter on my shirt.

Annie.

My joy is beyond words. I can't say anything but her name, "Annie, Annie, Annie," but I put everything I have into that word, and I think she understands because she responds in a similar fashion. It fills me with fireworks to hear her say my name over and over.

For the first time since the Quarter Quell, I feel complete. I feel whole. I feel the pieces starting to fit back together.

And that's when the screaming starts.

I look over Annie's head and see several people tearing Peeta off of Katniss, who lays on the ground, unconscious. He's like a feral animal, spasming and growling with bestial cruelty as he struggles to get back to her. Katniss's mother bends over her, quickly issuing out orders to other nurses. Gale and a few others are dragging Peeta away.

Annie rests her forehead on my shoulder, hiding her face from the scene. "He's been like that for days," she says in a small whisper. "Angry and mean and twitchy. He's not the same boy."

It's then that I notice some people working on a bald, scabby form and recognize Johanna. The doctors' faces are frowning and serious as they work on her intently.

It's clear that whatever this is is far from over. There's more to come. There's always more. I close my eyes and burrow my face in Annie's hair. She sighs my name.

You've got to treasure what really matters when you can. It will always give you the strength to confront the rest.

* * *

><p><strong>There's the heartfelt reunion scene! I really hope I did it justice for you guys. I gave it my best shot. From now on, the chapters will probably be less Katniss-centric; she will still play a major role, of course, but not nearly as much as before. <strong>

**Did you love it? Hate it? Tell me what you think!**


	61. M: District Thirteen: New Ideas

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **N**ew **I**deas

* * *

><p>After the chaos in the hospital dies down, the doctors make sure Annie is healthy. They ask her a few questions, but stop when she starts to get upset. It's clear they won't get much information out of her, but the doctor declares her intact, with the exception of a few scrapes and bruises and a bit of malnourishment. She wasn't tortured in the Capitol. Not physically, at least.<p>

"I don't know how much they've told you…" I hesitantly begin once she's completed her physical. Honestly, I don't know where to go from here. How much does she know? How much do I tell her? I have no idea what needs to be said.

Fortunately, Annie seems to have an idea. "We're in District Thirteen, right? Underground. Katniss's cousin was explaining to us on the way here. We're supposed to get briefed on the rules after we've all recovered." Her forehead wrinkles. "Are any of us in trouble, Finnick?"

"No, no, Katniss made sure no one would get in trouble," I say. "Not even Enobaria. Did they…?"

Annie's face becomes dark like a cloud. "No," she says curtly. "A shark knows better than to bite into the hull of a ship. She smelled blood in the water and devoured us."

I shudder. "She's a traitor, then?"

"Or rather, she's _not_ a traitor," Annie says. "But she's not a captive, that's for sure. Which is fine with me; she always gave me the creeps. We don't need someone like her on our team."

"You're right." I'd rather have Enobaria living in luxury thousands of miles away than smiling next to me with her deadly golden teeth, even if luxury is the last thing she deserves.

"Can…can we see how the others are doing?" Annie tentatively asks, peering over my shoulder at Katniss. She's lying on a bed with a neck brace to repair the damage Peeta did. Apparently he tried to strangle her on sight.

"I've already asked," I say. "Johanna is still in surgery, and Peeta is too much of a risk to let anyone near him. They don't know what's wrong yet."

Annie shakes her head, closing her eyes tight. "What they did to him, it's not right. Not right."

"What did they do?"

"Scream. They made him scream." She puts her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut, even as the tears drip from them. I put my arms around her stiff form, which quietly relaxes after a few moments.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I won't ask again."

She grabs on to my gray shirt and stays here, leaning her forehead on my shoulder. I can sense questions brewing in her. I have questions of my own, which I'm reluctant to ask but know in my heart need answering.

"Did you watch it?" I finally say into her hair.

She nods silently.

"Even though I asked you not to?"

Again, she nods.

"I knew you would."

Silence. Then: "Mags is really gone."

It's not a question, but I answer it with a "yes" anyway. Annie doesn't tell me she's sorry, and she doesn't tell me it wasn't my fault, and she doesn't start to cry. I really appreciate it. I think I've done enough of that for the both of us.

"Ore?"

"Yes."

"Nath?"

"Yes."

"Haro?"

"…Yes."

Annie's eyes flicker up to meet mine, demanding crucial, brutal honesty. "My mother?"

"I don't know. Peacekeepers took her into custody, but I haven't heard anything else. I'm sorry." It's an inadequate answer, and I know it will cause Annie more grief than relief, but I can't lie to her. Not about that. She takes it with a grain of salt, pressing her lips together in a bitter grimace, but eventually surmounts the panic inside.

"They took me from my own home," she says, looking at her bare feet. "It was after the television went black, after Katniss shot her arrow. We didn't see after that. I was…I was so worried…and then they just appeared. They knocked down our door and took me, grabbed me and dragged me out into a hovercraft. Mother was screaming after me, but they just hit her in the head and she fell…I thought they'd killed her, and I wanted to…" She clenches her fists tightly, shoving the rest of the story out of her mouth in clipped sentences. "It was utter chaos. Peacekeepers swarming everywhere. No one knew what was happening. There were riots. There were shots fired. People dropped dead for no apparent reason. And they just took me in the middle of it all and flew me away. No one but Mother even noticed."

"War," I say.

"War is something in the past," says Annie. "It's something you study in history. It's what got us into this mess in the first place. We need to put war behind us. I'm sick and tired of it."

I sigh. "We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because," I say, "in the end, everything is just a war."

"That's not true," Annie hiccups. Her eyes are brimming with tears. They fall down her cheeks and leave little shiny lines. "War is ugly. If everything was a war, there wouldn't be anything beautiful in this world. And I just can't accept that."

"War can be beautiful," I say. "It just can't be pure."

Annie doesn't have a response.

An air of hopelessness hangs around us for a moment, like something lost just within our grasp. We're both sick and tired of war.

Prim walks up to us and politely clears her throat. "Sorry to bother you, but Haymitch told me to tell you that we figured out why Peeta…did what he did to my sister. He said for me to ask you to come down to Special Defense."

"Alright, thank you, Prim," I say. She nods and scurries off. I hold out my hand to Annie, who is staring after Katniss's little sister with fascination and thoughtfulness. She turns to me, her bright green eyes smoldering and triumphant, but she doesn't do anything except smile and take my hand.

I hate it when she can prove me wrong without a word.

"Annie," I say as we're walking to Special Defense, "something you mentioned earlier bothered me."

"What?" she implores apprehensively.

"You said that a shark knows better than to bite into the hull of a ship. Well, I'm assuming Enobaria's the shark, and the Capitol is the ship, right?"

"Yes."

"So what does that make us?"

Annie blinks at me as if the answer couldn't be more obvious. "The storm that sinks the ship, of course."

I shake my head, grinning from ear to ear all the way to Special Defense. For the life of me, I can't figure out why these people think she's crazy. No one else has ever made more sense.

Beetee and Plutarch Heavensbee greet us in Special Defense. Annie is weary of Heavensbee, since she is only familiar with him by his reputation as Head Gamemaker, but I convince her that he's on our side. He quickly goes over the rules of District Thirteen for her, giving her the standard gray clothes and assigning us to a new compartment. I feel happiness swelling inside me when I realize that Annie will be living with me.

"Prim said you figured out what happened to Peeta," I say after all that is done. "Why did he try to kill Katniss?"

Beetee and Heavensbee glance at each other, which irritates me. Since when did they get so chummy? What will happen if I can't trust Beetee to tell me anything without authorization first? _He didn't tell me about Peeta's broadcast that time either_, I recall. _Maybe his alliance is shifting, just like Gale's._

"We believe that Peeta's undergone what's called 'hijacking'," Heavensbee tells us.

"I remember that word," Annie murmurs, tugging on my sleeve. "They used it…Peeta would tell me that they were going to do it to me after they were done with him. He got really mean, and then he'd start crying and apologize for it. I didn't know what they were doing to him, but it scared me."

"You shared a cell with Peeta?" Heavensbee says, practically pouncing on the information. Annie recoils from his enthusiasm, but slowly shakes her head.

"Not really. They...they brought him in a few times, but he never stayed long. I think they wanted to see if he'd share any information with me. He never did. At first he was nice and comforted me, told me that everything was going to be okay and that you would find us eventually. After that, he started getting meaner and meaner and meaner and meaner..." She grows defensive. "He never hit me, though. He never touched me. They stopped bringing him in after a while. I think they realized neither of us knew anything."

"Sounds like hijacking," Beetee said, nodding.

"What is it?" I inquire.

"They inject trackerjacker venom into the bloodstream and it induces nightmarish hallucinations," Beetee explains. "They can control these hallucinations, and eventually it gets to a person. It can control their emotional reactions or memories of certain things. After studying Peeta, we believe that they hijacked his memories of Katniss and made all of them negative."

"So…you're saying he hates her now," I deduce.

"Precisely," Beetee concurs. "That's all the information we've been able to get on the subject – hijacking is a fairly classified method of torture. It's used very exclusively. If it's any consolation, Annie, I doubt they would have used it on you. This was targeted specifically for Katniss, and Katniss alone. Peeta probably told you that as a side effect of the venom. It can make people quite cruel."

I don't see how that is any consolation to Annie at all, but it does make me feel a little better. An image of Annie tackling me to the ground with her hands around my throat flashes across my mind, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I wonder how Katniss will feel when she wakes up. This is her reality.

"Is there any way to reverse it?" I ask.

"None that we know of," Beetee sighs. "We're doing some research, but I doubt we'll find anything particularly helpful."

"In the meantime," says Heavensbee, "you can show Miss Cresta how things work here in District Thirteen." He smiles benevolently at her. "Please, make yourself at home. And if you feel the need to share anything, anything at all, just come to me. Alright?"

"Keep us posted on Peeta's condition," I tell Beetee firmly. He nods, and somehow I feel like I can trust him with this, at least. I take Annie by the hand and lead her out of Special Defense.

"He sounds like Dr. Greenswilsh," Annie remarks, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She lowers her voice in an uncanny impersonation of Heavensbee. " 'Please, make yourself at home. Tell me everything you know while you're at it.'"

I laugh at the mention of Annie's old scatterbrained psychiatrist from the Capitol, the one who took care of her after her Hunger Games. "I know you didn't like him, but I still maintain that he genuinely wanted to help you," I say. I wonder how he's taking this rebellion.

"Are you saying I should trust them?" says Annie, jerking her head in the direction of Special Defense.

"I think you should follow your instincts," I tell her.

She nods, eyebrows coming together thoughtfully.

I give Annie a tour of District Thirteen until we start to get hungry. Then I take her to the cafeteria and help her acquire some flavorless soup and pulverized beets. She doesn't complain about the food. She doesn't even make a face. She just eats it. I'm willing to bet it's the best meal she's had in months.

After that I introduce her to people. I want her to feel as safe as possible, and being surrounded by complete strangers won't accomplish that. Not that I'm planning on letting her out of my sight any time soon.

She mostly meets the District Twelve refugees, who I've become acquaintanced with through Katniss. Gale's family, the Hawthornes, consisting of several small children whose names I can't all remember and their mother, Hazel, gush over Annie's shiny long brown hair and green eyes. She warms up very nicely to Greasy Sae, which I'm not entirely sure how to interpret. I bring her back to the hospital and introduce her properly to the Everdeens.

"How is Katniss doing?" I ask Mrs. Everdeen while Prim is telling Annie about her pet cat.

"Recovering," she sighs with a wary glance at her bedridden daughter. "Peeta didn't do too much damage, but I'm keeping her under until we can figure out what to do about…about him."

I understand. She doesn't want to wake Katniss up until there's a chance Peeta can still be rescued. Otherwise there's no telling what might happen. The boy who she loves, who just tried to kill her, is farther from her reach than ever. That's a harsh reality to wake up to. Then again, what isn't?

"What about Johanna?"

"She's also recovering," Mrs. Evergreen says. "She's in stable condition, though, which is an improvement. She suffered serious electrical burns and her entire body was shaved. There's no telling whether she'll recover fully or not. It's not looking good, though. We plan to find out more information when she wakes up, but right now she's too heavily medicated."

"Thank you," I say.

"It's no problem at all. Not for someone who's been so good to Katniss." She looks at the form in the bed again tenderly. "Thank you, Mr. Odair, for being there for my daughter. It's more than I could ever do."

"That's not true," I say. "She loves you. She loves you and Prim more than anything."

"I know. I love her too. But that doesn't mean I was there for her when she needed me the most. It's never been the same between us. I can never figure out the right thing to say to her. So I'm glad that she has someone else to bring her the comfort I can't provide."

I put a hand on her shoulder. "Whether she admits it or not, she'll always need you. Take it from someone who grew up without a mother. And please, call me Finnick."

She nods, brushing tears from her eyes. "Linda."

"Finnick!" Annie hurries over, looking elated. "Prim is going to take us to see Buttercup! Come on!" She takes my hand and tugs me away from Mrs. Linda Everdeen, who laughs through her tears and waves goodbye as I'm dragged out of the hospital by two excited young women.

The Everdeens' compartment isn't far. It's got a little smelly box of sand to accommodate the scowling ball of brown-yellow fur curled under a cot. Prim introduces him as Buttercup. His ears perk up when he hears her voice, and he pokes his splotchy pink and black nose into the air before peering out with his entire head. He doesn't seem to see any threat in Annie or me, so he slinks into the light and into Prim's outstretched hands.

"See, he's really quite friendly," Prim explains, massaging his ears with her fingers. He keeps his eyes focused indifferently on Annie and me. He's got a tear in one ear and his tail is missing some fur on the end as it twitches back and forth. I can tell he is not afraid to swipe at us if we do anything to offend him or Prim, but that he'll be amiable for her sake.

He kind of reminds me of Katniss.

Annie reaches out her hand and scratches under his chin gently, smiling when he purrs with renewed enthusiasm and raises his head for a better angle. The girls spend a few minutes coddling the ridiculous little animal. My nose is starting to itch, so I keep my distance from him. Besides, from the skeptical glares he's shooting at me, I don't think he'll let me pet him anyway.

Prim shows Annie how to play a modified version of Crazy Cat, a game Katniss invented and entertained us with when we were on lockdown in the bunker. Basically you take a flashlight and Buttercup chases it. Prim replaces the flashlight with a little bit of string and drags it on the floor in front of him. We sit on the floor and take turns playing Crazy Cat with Buttercup, who never seems to catch on. Or perhaps he does, but his instinct to chase the string overrides his reason.

I know the feeling.

Annie and Prim get along really well. I'm glad that Annie is getting along with someone, especially someone like Prim, who I know won't take advantage of her, or trick her out of simple cruelty, or treat her like she's an explosive, or pity her. Prim will be a good friend for Annie because she will accept every one of Annie's broken pieces for what they are.

As I'm watching them, a sudden vision overwhelms me. I see Annie, but I don't see Prim anymore. I see a little girl with long brown hair and shining eyes the color of the ocean and a smile with a gap between her two front teeth. She looks a lot like Annie and a little bit like me.

It's in this moment that I realize: Annie and I can be together.

We can hold hands and kiss in public. I don't have to be secretive about my love for her. She's not at risk of being destroyed if I tell someone I love her. I can tell the whole world and no one will do anything about it. I'm not a slave anymore. I'm free.

Annie and I can get married.

When I introduce her, she won't just be "Annie" anymore. She'll be "Annie, my wife." And when this rebellion is over, we can move back to District Four and buy a house there, a house by the shore, and we can have a cat or a dog or whatever else she wants. We can even have kids, although I can't imagine how children raised by two people as broken as we are will turn out.

I blink at Annie with wonder, even though I'm not really seeing her in the present. When I look at her, all I can see is a future.

* * *

><p>We play Crazy Cat until Annie starts to doze off and Buttercup snatches the string from her fingers, running under the cot with it in his mouth. I grab her by the hand and hoist her off the ground. "You've had a long day," I say. "I think it's time to go to sleep."<p>

"Probably a good idea," Prim agrees, dusting off her white uniform. "Being rescued is exhausting. I need to get back to the hospital anyway. It was nice meeting you, Annie. I'm glad that you're here with us, and I hope you enjoy your stay."

"Thank you. Nice meeting you too, Prim," Annie yawns.

The girl smiles and waves goodbye to us. "See you around, guys."

We wave back, then look for our compartment. It's dark inside, and almost identical to the Everdeens', only a bit smaller and with one cot. There aren't any cats in this one either, for which I'm secretly relieved because my nose is red and stuffy. Annie takes a tentative step inside and looks around the blank room, her eyes roaming curiously. I don't take my eyes off her.

"It's not much," I say.

"It's more than enough," she disagrees. She looks at me and her lips lift up into a small smile. "I have you here. It's more than enough."

I close the door, enveloping us completely in blackness. I can hear her, hear her breathing, and then I can hear her footsteps, quietly growing closer, louder. I feel her fingers brush my chest, the warmth of her body, her breath, her hair against my chin. I press my lips to her forehead and breathe her in, wishing we could just be one person so I never have to let her go.

"They never let it get dark," she whispers against my neck. I feel the tickle of her eyelashes as she closes her eyes. "They didn't want me to sleep."

"Are you scared?"

"Always."

My arms tighten around her. I hate that she is always swallowing the fear inside her, the anxiety, the panic, even though I know it's probably good for her to be a little bit afraid. If she wasn't, she wouldn't still be alive. "Don't be scared with me," I say. "With me, you're safe."

"I'm the most afraid when I'm with you," Annie confides. I can barely hear her, her voice is so soft. "When I'm alone with you, it always reminds me how easy it is to lose you. That scares me more than anything."

We don't say anything for a while. We just listen to each other's breathing, to our heartbeats in the dark. I take her hand and hold in my own, guiding it the smooth round stone that rests against my collarbone. Annie gasps a little, folding her fingers around the sea glass. Then she finds the disk of metal beside it, rubbing her thumb gently over the mottled silver surface.

"It's not as easy to lose something as you might think," I tell her.

"But you're not a something. You're a some_one_," Annie says. She pops open Mags's locket and shuts it again to prove her point. "They're always too easy to lose. Especially when it's someone you love."

I can't argue with that logic. I cup her face in my hands and make out the contours of it, her little nose and sharp chin and the shape of her eyes. "Annie, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"I want you to say yes to the next question I ask you."

She smiles under my hands. "Okay, Finnick. Ask it."

I get down on one knee, taking her hands in mine. I take a deep breath. "Annie Cresta, will you marry me?"

I know what her answer will be, but even still my heart skips a beat and my stomach does flips in that agonizing second before she says, "Yes!" and falls to her knees, throwing her arms around my neck. We're laughing one minute, crying the next, and then Annie falls asleep in my arms. I don't even bother to carry her to the cot. I just close my eyes and join her.

* * *

><p><strong>Reunion! Wedding bells! Yay! I tell you what, guys, I'm getting more and more excited to see this movie. I'm really anxious to see who they get to play Annie, even though she's not really a main character; she probably won't even really show up in the <em>Catching Fire<em> film, which makes me sad. But I can deal as long as they get her right in _Mockingjay_.**


	62. M: District Thirteen: Pain

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **P**ain

* * *

><p>I'm alone when I wake up, and I feel my stomach sink when I realize that yesterday was just a dream. Then I glance up and my heart leaps. Annie is sitting on the bed, pulling a brush through her long brown hair, watching me with a small smile.<p>

I sit up and wince. My back and neck are sore from sleeping propped up against the wall all night. Annie laughs and puts the brush down, coming over to me. "I did the same thing when I woke up," she admits, holding out a hand. She pulls me off the floor and smiles, looking like the happiest person in the world. "Good morning, Finnick."

"Good morning, Annie," I reply. Then I realize that Annie is probably the second happiest person in the world, because no one can possibly be as happy as I am right now.

We get dressed, and after eating breakfast we visit the hospital again. It's less chaotic than yesterday, since most of the minor injuries have recovered and a majority of long-term patients are beginning to function again. Prim spots us and comes over, blonde ponytail bobbing.

"Finnick, my mother wanted me to let you know that Johanna is awake," she says hurriedly. "Haymitch and Plutarch are with her."

"Those two…" I mutter, glowering. "Prim, will you keep Annie company for a moment?"

Annie looks stricken. "But Finnick – "

"I'll be right back," I reassure, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Prim nods and moves to Annie's side while I march over to Johanna's bed. I can see their silhouettes splashed on the blue privacy curtains. Then I hear Johanna's voice – scratchy, slurred, but unmistakably her.

"I'm not _trying_ to be difficult," she's saying. "Maybe if I wasn't in so much pain I would remember more."

"Forget about the morphine," Haymitch growls. He sounds irritated. Good.

"Then I have nothing else to say to you," Johanna sniffs.

"You much understand," Plutarch puts in. "We can't order the doctors to give you more painkillers. You're already at your limit – "

Johanna calls him something particularly nasty.

That's when I step in, pushing aside the curtain for dramatic effect. Heavensbee and Haymitch are on either side of Johanna, who is laying down and glaring at them with as much force as she can muster while still drugged up. They all look at me when I walk in, but Johanna is the only one who looks pleased to see me.

"Finnick!" she cries, looking relieved. "There you are! I was wondering when you were going to finally show up. Tell these imbeciles to scram, will you? People always listen to you for some reason."

"Maybe it's because they actually like me," I tell her. "But you're right. Haymitch, Plutarch, would you mind if I spoke to Johanna alone?"

Plutarch looks like he wants to object, but Haymitch steers him away. He probably suspects that his best chance of getting Johanna to talk is through me. Not that I'd ever tell him anything Johanna doesn't want me to say. Not that she'll tell me anything.

They leave and close the curtain behind them, leaving the two of us enclosed in our own solitary bubble of fabric. Johanna sinks back into the pillows, gaunt and exhausted. She doesn't look much like I remember – she holds more of a resemblance to a corpse than the beautiful, vibrant woman I left behind. She's bald, pale, emaciated, and covered in scabs and scars.

She opens one eye when she feels me staring. "Snap a picture, Prettyboy. You should know better than anyone that it lasts longer."

"Jo," I whisper. "I'm – "

"If you apologize, I'm going to get up and hit you with my IV." She glares at me, daring me to speak. "I'm serious. I don't need a pity party. I knew what could happen going in, and I accepted that. So just take your apology and eat it, because I don't want it."

"I was going to say that I'm glad you're alright."

"You dirty liar." She's silent for a moment. Then she closes her eyes again. "What makes you think I'm alright, anyway?"

"Well, you look like a million bucks."

"I bet you say that to all the ladies," she sneers. "But I guess I should be thanking you for running off those two vultures. They've been drilling me since I woke up. I wouldn't be surprised if they were circling me like I was dead meat."

"Sorry about that," I say. "They're kind of desperate for information. Peeta's not doing too hot, and he's the reason they made the expedition to the Capitol to save you guys. Katniss couldn't be the Mockingjay without knowing he was safe first."

Johanna's lips turn up into a wan smile. "Oh? And how did that go?"

"He tried to kill her on sight. She's actually recovering in the bed right next to you."

"Joy."

"Johanna, what did they do to him?"

"Not you, too," she groans. "Like I know what happened to Loverboy! I had my own problems to deal with, if you haven't noticed. I didn't exactly have tea and cookies with Peeta and Annie every day. Speaking of which, how is Little Miss Crazy? She was a nervous wreck on the hovercraft over here."

"Don't call her that," I say, but it's half-hearted. Getting Johanna to stop giving people insulting nicknames was like trying to stop waves from hitting the shore. But the question reveals a modicum of disguised concern for Annie, which is unusual – I was always under the impression that Johanna disliked her for her frailty. "We're doing well. She's adjusting better than I thought she would. I think you will, too, once you get back on your feet."

Johanna snorts. "That won't be for a while if I can help it."

"Jo…"

"Don't 'Jo' me, Odair. I've got enough people riding me about the drugs, but you know what? I don't give a damn. If I want to die in ignorant, trippy, painless bliss, I think I've earned it. So deal with it."

"You're right," I say. "But you and I both know that's not how you want to die. You haven't gone through all this, fought so long, just to euthanize yourself. You're a fighter, Johanna. And you always will be."

She looks away, clenching her jaw. "Shut up, Finnick. You don't know what you're talking about."

"See? You're already arguing."

"_Finnick_." She turns to look at me, and I see the pain in her eyes, which are filled with tears. They begin to spill down her cheeks in rapid succession, and she is visibly as terrified by them as I am. I have never, not once, seen Johanna cry. "You don't know. Maybe I was like that before, but that's only because I always assumed that they couldn't possibly do anything worse than they'd already done. I thought I'd handled every kind of pain they could throw at me. I was wrong. So, just…leave it alone. Let me just be done with pain. Please."

I've never heard her say please either. Johanna has always been twisted, but the thing that made her so outstanding was that, unlike the rest of us, Snow had yet to break her. She was made of steel. Victors from District Ten compared her to the wild colts they failed to domesticate. The Capitol had warped her, damaged her, prodded her until she curled into a mean, bitter shell, but they had never tamed her. Not until now.

President Snow had finally broken her.

Rage swells inside me – not the quick heat of anger, but the intense, slowly burning inferno of fury. Johanna, for all her faults, is one of my closest friends. I trust her more than almost anyone, and, dare I say it, love her more than anyone since Annie. I vow to myself that the President will pay for what he's done to her, just as much as he will for what he's done to Annie and me.

"Alright," I tell her. She lets out a breath and closes her eyes, leaking two more tears before quenching their flow.

"Do me a favor and clean this up before they come back," she says in a shaky voice. "I don't want them to think we had a heartfelt reunion or anything."

I gently wipe her tears with my sleeve. "They won't come back. I'll make sure of that. Get some rest, Jo."

"Whatever. I don't need you to babysit me, Prettyboy," she sneers, rolling over so her back is to me. She buries her face in a pillow and doesn't speak again.

Heavensbee and Haymitch are waiting with the girls outside. The two men are listening attentively to Prim, while Annie distantly looks around. She lights up when her eyes focus on me, and my heart skips a beat. "Finnick!" she chirps, rushing toward me. "How is she?"

"Tired," I say, interlacing our fingers. I look pointedly at Haymitch, who's approaching with Heavensbee. "She fell asleep while I was talking to her. She's not up for anymore questions right now."

"But we barely got the chance to speak with her at all!" Heavensbee complains.

"Guess it'll have to wait until tomorrow," I say. "Or maybe even later than that. She seemed pretty tuckered out."

Haymitch narrows his eyes at me. "What'd she say to you?"

"Nothing about the Capitol. All I know is that she's in pain, Haymitch. She needs help."

"We have some of the finest psychiatrists here in District Thirteen," Heavensbee says. "I'm sure that with their attentive care, she'll be better in no time—"

"She won't accept that kind of help, Plutarch," Haymitch says, still glaring at me.

"Did _you_?" I challenge.

"Yes," Haymitch answers, surprising me. "I did. I detoxed as soon as I got here. You can forget about it, Finnick. I'm not authorizing them to give her anymore drugs than she needs. Our budget is too tight to indulge an addiction."

"She's in _pain_," I appeal. "You don't understand, Haymitch. She's in unbearable—"

"We're all in pain!" Haymitch roars at me. Annie flinches and digs her face into my shoulder, but that doesn't deter him. He leans in, seething. "Don't tell me that I don't understand. I do. I understand better than anyone. There's no such thing as unbearable pain. It's just a matter of how you bear it. Johanna Mason isn't special. She'll get just as much medication as she needs, and then that's it. I'm not going to instruct her doctors to dope her up when there are other people whose lives will depend on the morphine."

Annie is whimpering, ears covered by her hands to block out Haymitch's outrage. Plutarch just seems shocked into silence. I'm looking down at my shoes, because I know what he says is true and I hate that I'm still wishing Johanna could get the painkillers. "Understood," I say coldly, putting a comforting arm around Annie.

Haymitch grunts and saunters off. Heavensbee sighs as we watch him go. He turns his attention to Annie, who is peeping out from my shirt. "I'm sorry he upset you, my dear," he says gently. He glances up at me. "And I'm also sorry that we cannot offer your friend Johanna any more help. But what he says is true. We can't afford to waste medication."

"I know," I say. "Thank you."

I think it's the first time I'm being genuine with Plutarch Heavensbee. It's the first decent thing I've ever heard him say to anyone. He nods and follows Haymitch out the doors of the hospital. For the first time it occurs to me that maybe he's Haymitch's babysitter. I always assumed it was the other way around.

"Don't be mad at Haymitch, Finnick," says Prim. I almost forgot she was there, she's so quiet. "He's stressed out about Peeta. We still haven't found a way to cure him, and without him…" She doesn't have to finish the sentence. She just looks at her sister's bunk.

I sigh. "It's a mess, isn't it?"

"Yes," Prim agrees. "But what else is new?"

* * *

><p><strong>What else indeed? Fillerish, but necessary just the same. Chapters will be better once school is all said and done with. We're entering crunch time, so...yeah. You guys understand, right? Finals bad. Grr.<strong>


	63. M: District Thirteen: Announcement

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **A**nnouncement

* * *

><p>A few days later, I learn that the doctors woke Katniss up and took her to Peeta, and that it didn't go well. "They didn't even interact," Prim says when I confront her about it. "She watched from behind a two-way mirror while Peeta talked to one of his childhood friends who didn't have any relationship with Katniss. The idea was for her to act as a bridge. Katniss's name came up, and…well, you can guess how that went. Not even Delly could calm him down. Katniss was pretty shaken up by it. She wanted to leave immediately, so they sent her to District Two with Gale and Haymitch and a bunch of others."<p>

I'm a little hurt that Katniss would just leave without letting me know, but I can't really blame her for wanting to get out of Thirteen so desperately. If I were in her shoes, I think I would do the same.

I'm also disappointed because I wanted to tell Katniss about my betrothal to Annie before announcing it officially, but I suppose it's too late now. I already informed Johanna and Beetee. One or both of them must have opened their big mouth, because Plutarch intercepts me in the cafeteria today and asks me about it. When I confirm the rumor, he practically jumps for joy.

"A wedding! You know, that's just what this place needs. We can make it a huge celebration. There will be a feast, lavish decorations, we'll have an extravagant dress made for Annie…"

"Shouldn't you run that by Coin first?" I inquire, sharing a glance with Annie. She seems a bit overwhelmed by the idea of such a big celebration on our behalf.

"Not even _she_ can possibly put a limit on such a wondrous occasion," Plutarch says optimistically. "Besides, we'll film it and make it a special broadcast. There's nothing like true love overcoming all obstacles to uplift the heart and soul."

I consider what the President will think about my marriage with Annie, especially after he witnesses my fans' reactions, and I'm filled with a dark, deep-rooted satisfaction.

Evidently Plutarch's optimism is misplaced, because Coin is flabbergast – or at least as flabbergast as she can manage – at the idea of marriage constituting any sort of ceremony. In District Thirteen, all a couple does is sign a paper and get a bunk assigned to them. So when Plutarch utters sacrilegious words like "feast," "lavish," and "extravagant," she rejects the idea outright. "I would gladly preside over the signing of a marriage contract for the two of you," she tells us. "However, I will not waste our valuable time with trivial distractions."

"But just think of the propaganda opportunities, Agatha," Plutarch protests. "A celebration is just what the rebels need. We need to remind them of the reason they're doing all this fighting."

"And that's exactly why Soldier Everdeen is in District Two at this very moment," Coin reprimands lightly.

"No offense, President Coin, but the last thing soldiers need to see on a propo is more fighting," I say. "Even if it's triumphant battle, they need some variation. We need to remind them what they're looking forward to after all of this is over."

"And what is that, exactly, Soldier Odair?"

Annie answers for me in one muted word: "Happiness."

Coin leans back in her chair and invests more thought into the idea. Plutarch greedily latches on to the slack, attempting to unravel her like a frayed thread. "It will be a small ceremony. Nothing too outrageous or expensive. Trust me, Agatha, I'll keep it under control. Just let me show the world that these two children are happy."

I think he's laying it on a bit thick, but Coin heaves a reluctant sigh and agrees to a small wedding. "Just postpone it until Soldier Everdeen returns," she stipulates. "If we're going to make this into a propo, she needs to be here."

"Perfect!" Plutarch says. "That gives us plenty of time to plan it out!"

By the look on Coin's face, she's already regretting her decision.

Annie beams at me, glowing with bliss. "Finnick, we're getting married!" she squeals, throwing her arms around me. I pick her up and twirl her around, laughing ecstatically. Until now, it almost didn't seem real.

"We're getting married!"

After that, everyone in District Thirteen miraculously knows about our engagement. I don't know if Plutarch advertised it somehow, or if the same loose lips that told him spread it around, but it seems like everywhere we go people are congratulating us. Each time we respond with a gracious, "Thank you!" and smile at each other. I feel weightless, like I'm floating on a cloud. I know Annie feels the same. Sometimes she's so lost in her own happy head that I have to shake her to get her attention. She just giggles and apologizes. I can't help but think that it's so much better than before, when I had to wrench her out of nightmares instead of daydreams.

"You two sicken me," Johanna says, her lip curling in disgust. Her hospital recovery is going more smoothly, mainly because they've started feeding her solid food without weaning her off morphine yet. It's happening soon, though, so she's enjoying it while it lasts. Most of her scabs have started healing up, and I can already see healthy stubble cropping from her shaved head. She's still bedridden, but she can sit up and move her arms around. It won't be long before she's terrorizing everyone again.

"Don't be jealous," I reply. I still don't bring Annie to Johanna's room when I visit. Their track record isn't good. Every encounter they've had has ended up in tears or screaming, but that's mainly because they've only met right after a Hunger Game when they're both their most volatile.

Still, I don't want to risk it if I don't have to.

Johanna snorts unattractively. "Right. You know, I almost feel sorry for her. She's got to put up with you for the rest of her life now. It's kind of sad."

"Are you coming?" I ask.

"Well, duh. What kind of maid-of-honor would I be if I didn't come?"

"What's a maid-of-honor?"

Johanna blinks. "Well…you know. The lady who makes sure the bride doesn't go off and do something crazy. I guess that's kind of impossible in this case, though, huh?"

"We don't have those in District Four," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Whatever. I'm still it whether you like it or not."

Beetee is also enthusiastic about the wedding in his own quirky way. He is in charge of broadcasting it live on television throughout Panem, and is taking his job even more seriously than usual. "It deserves to be aired in its entirety," he tells me. I feel a rare burst of genuine affection for the little mastermind.

Heavensbee relentlessly questions Annie and I on the particulars of a traditional District Four wedding. "I want to integrate wedding traditions from several districts, with Four being the primary contributor, of course," he explains. "It will be a symbol of the union of the country as well as your union." Honestly, I think he just wants to jazz up our wedding, but I don't complain. As long as Annie is my bride, I don't have anything to complain about.

He draws up an outline and a budget for the marriage and presents it to Coin. I think her eyes are going to pop out of her head when she reads the paper he gives her. "Absolutely not," she snaps, affronted. "That is too expensive. The quantity of food on that list is enough to feed our army, and the quality is rich enough for a king. It is completely out of the question. Whatever you serve needs to be readily available here. We can't risk any shipments. As for the decorations, cut those down by at least half. And Miss Cresta"—even Coin realizes the utter ludicrousness of calling Annie 'Soldier' Cresta—"does not need this much finery which she will only wear once."

Heavensbee fights gallantly, but to no avail. Coin dismembers his purposely inflated budget even beyond his imagination until he is left with what he claims is barely enough to scrape by. Coin, at her limit, orders him to be frugal and dismisses us.

He breathes a heavy sigh outside of Command. "Don't worry, you two. She'll come around eventually," he says, as though we demanded a superfluous wedding and he is doing us a great service by arguing with Coin over it. We give him our sincerest faith in his determination and leave him to scheme.

Our days are usually like this. Nights are sometimes better, sometimes worse. Having Annie's warm body beside me at night helps me sleep tremendously better, and I experience a boost of energy, sharpness, and overall cheerfulness. I can tell that Annie has also been suffering from sleep deprivation and is relishing my presence next to her.

We still get nightmares. Somehow I know that, no matter how happy we are, they'll never stop. I don't wake from mine anymore; Annie wakes me up because I start thrashing around and mumbling. My heart beats rapidly, I'm soaked in cold sweat, and my stomach is sour with terror, but once I open my eyes I'm fortunate enough to never remember what the nightmare is about.

Annie is not so lucky. She still wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, half delirious with fear. The first few times our neighbors knock on the door to see what's wrong, but after an explanation they stop. It usually takes me quite a while to calm her down, so I'm grateful that they don't complain.

One night I wake up to find that Annie is not beside me. I jackknife out of bed and see her crouched in the corner, shaking, bent over a wastebasket. I hear the splash of vomit as it hits the bottom.

"Annie?" I swing my legs off the bed and pad over to her, rubbing soothing circles on her back until her sobs recede enough for the involuntary retching to stop. I wrap my arms around her and hold her to my chest, where she steadies her breathing and dries her tears. "What was it about this time?"

We found years ago that Annie's dreams are vivid, illicit, and vastly creative. She never has the same nightmare twice. She has described this phenomenon as a horror factory inside her head, pumping out terrors, and also as a little devil artist whose muse is her suffering. Talking about it has always made her feel better, and she has forgone any reserves between us where nightmares are concerned. We always discuss it, no matter what. Even if the nightmare has to do with me – _especially_ if the nightmare has to do with me – we talk about it. Those are the worries I can sooth most easily from her mind.

"You…"

"What about me?"

"…y-you…left me…at the wedding…you never came…"

This is so unexpected that I can't help but take a moment to digest it. I manage to croak, "What?"

"You never c-came to the wedding. I stood there for years and years waiting for you, until the flowers withered and my hair turned gray and I b-became a hundred years old, but I never saw you. We never got married. I waited for you until I…I died, but you never came."

"Annie. That is _not_ going to happen. We're getting married as soon as Katniss gets back from District Two. You know I would never leave you at the altar."

"I _know_ that. But in my dream I didn't. It was terrifying. I was watching myself, and I was screaming at myself that you were never coming back, but I wouldn't listen. I waited there like a fool, until on my dying breath I cursed myself for being so gullible. It's terrifying because I know that if you did decide to stand me up at the wedding, I would wait. I would wait forever, until I got old and gray and died. I would wait for you." She buries her face in my shirt. "And that terrifies me."

"I would wait for you forever, too, Annie," I tell her. "You know that. I went crazy waiting for you here; ask anyone. The thought of never seeing you again broke me. You're not the only one who's terrified. That's what love is. It's terror and joy and trust and so much more all rolled into one. It's caring about a person so much that it makes you afraid of what you would do for them. That's love." I cup her face in my hands and make sure she's looking at me, even though I know she can't see much more than a shape in the darkness. "Trust me, Annie. No one terrifies me as much as you do."

I see the white of her smile. Her small hands curl around my bigger ones, cold and trembling. Then she closes her eyes and falls asleep on my shoulder. This time I carry her to the bed and lay her down before I sneak out of the compartment to clean the mess.

Afternoon of the next day finds us in Command listening to yet another of Heavensbee's sure-to-be rejected wedding pitches. This time he wants to permit wide-scale hunting in the woods outside of District Thirteen in order to supply fresh meat for the banquet. He is just finishing up when a high-ranking officer bursts into Command and makes a bee-line for Coin. We all stand up, prepared for a struggle; this wouldn't be the first time an assassination attempt like this has happened. But the officer makes no move to attack Coin. He stops in front of her chair and asks to speak to her in private, for he bears a very important message from Soldier Abernathy.

That catches all of our attentions. Coin dismisses all of us despite our vehement protests, eventually resorting to the threat of brute force. Annie persuades me to comply, reasonably pointing out that I'll eventually find out what it is anyway if it has to do with Katniss.

The three of us wait outside Command anxiously. Heavensbee paces back and forth, making me antsy. Annie sits criss-cross on the floor, humming to herself. I think she's trying to keep calm. She doesn't know Katniss, but something tells me that Annie's admiration of her exceeds acquaintance. Besides that, if something has happened to Katniss that renders her incapable of performing her Mockingjay duties, we all know who her replacement will be.

I join Plutarch in pacing.

The door to Command opens after a subjective eternity and no sooner has the officer stepped out does Heavensbee shove his way inside. There's no objection, so Annie and I follow suit.

"Well?" he asks Coin. She's leaned back in her chair, gripping the armrests so hard that her knuckles are white. She looks shaken. Cool, collected, unshakable Agatha Coin is shaken. "What's the news? What did Haymitch say?"

Coin looks down at us, blinks once, twice, and then releases her hold on the armrests. Slowly she returns to her perfect posture, sitting rim-rod straight in her seat. Still, there is a flustered air around her that is disturbing.

"It appears that there has been some…complications with the mission to District Two," she says carefully, her eyes resting significantly on me. I feel my stomach sink, expecting the worst. Annie touches my arm gently.

"What kind of complications?" Heavensbee dares to inquire.

"While in District Two, Soldier Lyme's regiment set out to capture the mountain where many Peacekeepers and miners were taking shelter. Soldier Hawthorne devised a trap, during which Soldier Everdeen disobeyed orders."

She stops again, as though unable to continue. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Heavensbee looks irritated with her, his face gaining color. "Out with it! What happened?"

"It would seem that Soldier Everdeen…has been shot."

The room spins; Annie guides me to a chair, looking rather distressed herself. I find her hand and clutch it in mine, determined to have something to steady me. Coin's words reverberate in my head. _Soldier Everdeen has been shot…Soldier Everdeen has been shot…Katniss is shot_…

"…Her condition is stable," Coin says after a time, "for now. She is on her way to District Thirteen as we speak for further examination. According to Soldier Abernathy's report, however, the political damage is worse than her physical damage. Not only was Soldier Everdeen shot, she was shot on television. Everyone knows what's happened."

Heavensbee lets out an audible groan.

"This deserves serious retaliation on our part," Coin continues severely. "Despite the utter chaos Soldier Everdeen's situation has provoked, Soldier Abernathy's report suggests that the capture of Two will end up a success. The rebels need to me more ruthless than ever if we are to expediently end this war."

"What are you saying?" I blurt out.

"There is only one place left for us to go."

Annie's grip is tighter on my hand.

"The Capitol," Heavensbee murmurs.

"Yes," Coin decrees, nodding her head. "It is time for us to capture the Capitol."

* * *

><p><strong>Nothing much to say here. Review? :D<strong>


	64. M: District Thirteen: Wedding

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **W**edding

* * *

><p>Katniss arrives from District Two the next day. She spends about an hour in the hospital wing before the doctors assure us that she is stable. "Just some bruising and a ruptured spleen, but nothing life-threatening," Haymitch relays to us. He gazes into his coffee like he desperately wants it to transform into something with alcohol.<p>

"How is that possible?" I ask, amazed. I watched the footage. The President is plastering it all over television. Katniss is standing in the middle of a battlefield, talking to some man, when there's a crack and she collapses. It doesn't seem like much, but it made my heart stop for a few seconds. The rest of the footage that the Capitol won't show is of the District Two miners rallying against the Peacekeepers while the rebels rush to Katniss's aid.

"Cinna had the foresight to make our Mockingjay bulletproof," replies Haymitch. He shakes his head. "I knew I liked that guy for a reason."

After hearing the good news of Katniss's condition, Coin immediately begins training and recruiting for the Capitol ambush. She sends new people out, draws veterans in, and redistributes food lines, aid routes, everything, in an effort to accommodate our growing number of allies. With District Two in our grasp, it's only a matter of time before she starts sending people to take the Capitol.

With all this commotion, the wedding plans take a back seat. Annie and I don't mind. We've waited for more than ten years. We can wait a few extra days.

Besides, there's something we need to talk about first.

It takes me a while to work up the nerve to bring it up. But the night after Katniss gets out of surgery, as we're getting into bed, I take a deep breath and dive.

"Annie."

"Yes?"

"I…I've been thinking about…something…since yesterday. Since Katniss got shot." I take another deep breath. "I don't know how you're going to react."

Annie's face ages ten years in three seconds. "You want to go the Capitol, don't you?"

I blink, amazed. "H-how did you—?"

"I know you, Finnick," she says, cupping my cheek. "I can't say I know exactly what you've felt, but I know that you want to do everything in your power to take the President down after what he's done. You'll want to do it physically, with clear black and white results. You don't like political gray areas. With the right training and equipment, you'll me a great asset to the rebel army."

"But you…you don't mind?"

"Of course I mind," Annie whispers. She crawls into my lap and buries her head in my shoulder. "I don't want you to go running into a battlefield. But I can't stop you. I know it's something that you need to do in order to…" She trails off, closing her eyes against the tears. I can't guess what she how she was going to end the sentence, but I don't need to. The message is clear.

"We don't know when we're leaving yet," I tell her hair. "The training hasn't even really begun yet. And I don't even know if they'll let me."

"They will."

"We'll get married first. And when I come back, after this war is over, we'll move to District Four and build ourselves a house and we'll start a family."

"I'd be a horrible mother."

"You won't be. You'll be the best mother a kid could ask for. You'll be kind and caring and loving…you'll be the favorite parent. Our kids will adore you just as much as you'll adore them. Me, I'm going to be the one with problems. You've got a model to go off. I don't. I'll have to make it up as I go along."

"You're not crazy," Annie points out.

"We're all crazy," I say.

* * *

><p>The next day I request to join the troops headed to the Capitol. Before lunch I get approved and told to meet in Command with my regiment. There are about twenty other men and women standing in silent attention when I arrive. I join them.<p>

And so begins my training.

It's conducted by a man named Murphy. We drill every day; handling guns, grenades, battlefield conduct, formations, hand-to-hand combat, and an assortment of other useful skills. I'm a bit rusty and squeamish at first, but I get over it quickly. I go in survival mode. Soon I soar to the top of my class. Murphy congratulates me and says that I don't even need to be tested by the Assessment Board as long as I keep up steady training.

Meanwhile, the wedding arrangements for Annie and me are resuming. Sometimes I fall asleep in my chair while Plutarch and Coin argue, exhausted from a day of soldiering. Once I start snoring and Annie has to kick me under the table before they notice.

I try to visit Johanna in the hospital at least once a day, but it usually ends up being more like once every three days. She doesn't mind too much, she says—she's got Katniss for company now. They have bunks next to each other. Surprisingly enough, they do seem to be getting on better. It seems like they are using their mutual disdain to strengthen their bond rather than obliterate it. When Johanna insults Katniss, it almost seems affectionate. Or as affectionate as she can get.

They're both doing remarkably well. Johanna has gained weight back and her burns are healing. She still suffers withdrawal symptoms from the morphling the doctors are taking her off of, but it's for the best. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Katniss is also doing well. She doesn't move around much, but she is conscious most of the time and doesn't seem to be in too much pain. Her surgery and bruising will have her in bed for at least another six weeks, doctors tell her.

I don't mention the Capitol to them. Neither of them are in any condition to go and I know they'll be upset if they find out they can't. Coin set the deployment date for a month from now.

She sets a date for the wedding the same day she sets a date for the deployment. Plutarch has a week to scrape everything together. He frantically negotiates with Coin for everything he can get his hands on. Katniss and Beetee sometimes sit in on these meetings and watch with amusement. Boggs is always there, desperately stony-faced in an attempt to not smile. Others chip in to make sure it's the best wedding District Thirteen can offer. Children flock in to sing. Dozens of people volunteer to decorate, cook, entertain. Katniss even offers to fly Annie to her old house in what's left of District Twelve to scavenge for a dress. I'm really anxious about this—Annie hasn't left Thirteen since arrival, I don't know how she'll react on a hovercraft, or to the ruins, or if Katniss will like her, or if she'll like Katniss. I wonder if this is how Annie feels about me going to the Capitol. I decide that her anxiety is probably much worse.

I pour my nervousness into my training, hoping to swallow it up in endorphins. It doesn't work. Sweaty and buzzing, I head to the hospital to visit Johanna, who wrinkles her nose at my state.

"_What_ is your problem?"

"I'm nervous about Annie."

"Getting cold feet, eh?"

"No, it's not that," I say. I sit down on the edge of her bed, much to her disgust.

"They just washed my sheets," she says pointedly.

"I'm nervous about her going to Twelve with Katniss," I continue, pretending she hasn't spoken. As I list off the reasons why, Johanna's eyes grow more and more glazed over.

"You are such a clingy pretty boy," she sighs. "I guess I can't blame you after everything you've been through, but still. Get a grip. Our Mockingjay is going to deliver Little Miss Sunshine all wrapped up in a pretty bow, safe and sound."

I frown at her condescension. "You know, I've heard that when someone avoids using names, they're unconsciously trying to distance themselves emotionally from other people."

"There's nothing unconscious about it," Johanna replies.

Annie arrives, bowless, but safe and sound like Johanna predicts. She's excited about the dress Katniss's stylists chose for her, and also brings me one of Peeta's old suits. I ask her what she thinks of Katniss. "I like her," Annie ponders. "She seems more...human than I thought she would be."

The next day I'm poked and prodded by a tailor. Annie is too. We lay in bed later and compare battle scars, complaining with grinning faces about the pins.

Finally, the day comes.

Three hundred people attend our wedding. We know most of them, and the ones we don't know are important officials. I'm delighted to see the Everdeens in the crowd, as well as the Hawthornes and other families I've come to know from Twelve. Johanna is there claiming a seat in the front row. Haymitch, Plutarch, Beetee, Coin, Boggs—they're sitting next to her. Around forty children sing angelic notes while people fill in. A fiddler from Twelve plays with them.

I stand up front dressed in Peeta's altered suit, a nervous wreck. Johanna tried to slip me some booze before the ceremony—apparently that's another tradition in Seven—but I refused it. My stomach is doing flips. My throat is dry. My palms are wet. My head is spinning. I've waited for this day for so long, and now all I want is for it to be over with.

Then the crowd settles down and the music changes. Annie steps in wearing a green gown and carrying a bouquet of wildflowers. Her hair is pulled up, long curls spilling out of its clips. She doesn't have any makeup on, but she doesn't need it; she's naturally beautiful. My heart skips a beat just seeing her look so radiant. I meet her eyes and don't look at anyone else the entire time. This day could last forever and I'd be the happiest man alive.

She walks down the aisle until she meets me at the front, smiling. Dalton, a rancher from District Ten, conducts the ceremony. His accented voice carries across the room, his testimony a blend of Ten and Four. When it's time for Annie and I to exchange vows, he struggles to put the net of woven grass over our heads. Inside its confines I feel safe, like it's just the two of us. Pockets of light freckle Annie's face.

"Annie Cresta," I begin, "I never thought that this would be possible for us, but you always knew it would work out in the end. You had faith in our bond and in the goodness of the world. I'm going to remember this moment forever, even when we're old and gray. I love you more than anything, and I'm so happy you agreed to be my wife."

"Finnick Odair," she says, "To be honest, when I first met you, I never thought I would agree to have anything to do with you. But as I got to know you, as I saw your passion and your devotion and your capacity for love, as you patiently picked me up and put me back together again and again, I knew that there was no one else I'd rather be with. You ground me and you let me be free. You never gave up on me, or on us, and that means everything. I couldn't ask for a better husband. I love you so much."

When they take the net off, we're both crying.

Dalton brings over a dish with saltwater in it. Traditionally it's seawater, but obviously Plutarch had to improvise. I dip the tips of my fingers in the water and gently trace the outline of Annie's soft pink lips. I can feel her warm breath on my fingers. She does the same with me, slowly dragging the cool pad of her finger along my mouth. I'm not as well behaved as she was—for a brief moment my tongue flicks out, licking the saltwater off her skin. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head slightly, suppressing a smirk. A sensation like electricity runs through me. It makes my knees go weak.

The children sing the Wedding Song, which is so old that I don't even know what half of the words mean. The sound is beautiful, like the ebb and flow of the tide, and the message is clear. Annie takes my hand in hers. Our fingers are still wet from the saltwater.

"By the power vested in me," Dalton says once the children are done, "by authority of District Thirteen and President Agatha Coin, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

I bring Annie's mouth to mine as the crowd erupts into painfully loud cheers. She tastes like salt and sunshine.

The orderly rows of guests disband as apple cider is served. Annie and I are caught up in a rush of congratulations. Suddenly the lone fiddler starts a fast, happy tune, and everyone from Twelve literally stops in their tracks.

Greasy Sae grabs Gale and pulls him into the middle of the room. They start moving in beautiful, joyous, graceful motions. The rest of Twelve lines up and does the same, facing off against each other, dancing with partners, letting the music take control of their bodies. The rest of us clap to the beat, urging them on, grinning from ear to ear as their infectious laughter takes us.

I spot Katniss dancing with Prim, grinning and sweating and having the most fun I've ever seen her have. Someone taps on my shoulder and I turn to see Greasy Sae giving me a coy, toothless smile. "Hey, honey, need a partner to show you the ropes? Mrs. Odair here don't mind, do you, dear?"

_Mrs. Odair_. Annie and I grin at each other. "No, I don't mind," she says, giving me a good-natured shove. "Go teach him a thing or two."

"Oh, I plan to." Sae links our arms, and I shoot Annie a panicked look over my shoulder before we hit the swarming dance floor.

Greasy Sae has got rhythm. I have trouble keeping up with the deceptively simple steps she shows me. She moves with years of confident experience and choreographic freedom I can't hope to match.

"It's been fun, but I'd better get you back to your lady," she pants after a while, shooting me a wink. Then she spins me around with surprising strength and Annie is behind me, learning the same dance from Rory Hawthorne, Gale's little brother. I grin at Greasy Sae and take Annie's hand, twirling her around and dipping her.

"Sorry, Rory, do you mind if I take her off your hands?"

Rory shakes his head and bounds away to face off Gale. I straighten Annie up. She's laughing, her face flushed. "I hope you know what you're doing," she warns as we begin to step the rhythm. "Because I didn't learn a thing."

"It's all in who leads," I assure her, spinning her again.

We don't get the steps exactly right, but it doesn't matter. We let the music take control of our limbs. Annie is a marvelous dancer, lovely and elegant, somehow distinguishing herself from the spastic overjoyed movements around her with her languid grace.

The fiddle morphs into a softer melody, quieting the chaos on the dance floor. "Alright, people, move it or lose it!" Johanna demands. "This one's for the newlyweds."

Annie and I find ourselves the center of attention once again. Her face turns pink with self-consciousness. I smile and take her waist in my hands, pulling her to me. She winds her arms around my neck and we rock back and forth with the song. She closes her eyes and rests her head on my shoulder. I can hear her breathing and the rustle of our clothes. Something warm melts inside me like butter, spreading through my middle. Now I know why people always fall in love after a slow dance.

Other couples join us after a time. The song steadily grows faster, until once again we're writhing in the middle of a congregation.

Plutarch calls it off a second time to announce a surprise. Four people wheel in a giant cake, a masterpiece of blue and green frosting painted in waves, sailboats and flowers and fish. I sends a shot of homesickness through me. Annie's hand covers her mouth. "Oh, it's perfect," she whispers.

I cut into it and feed Annie a piece, promising not to smash it in her face. I do dab some icing on the tip of her nose, though. She rewards me by rubbing her nose on my cheek. We each eat our own separate piece. The cake tastes as good as it looks.

After that, the reception slowly disintegrates like wet paper. People disperse in groups. Annie and I are helping the clean-up crew when Johanna slaps the back of my head, scowling. She looks pale and exhausted. "Jo," I say, "I expected you to be back in bed by now."

"I could say the same," Johanna retorts, her face growing even more pinched. "You two don't get to clean up. That's not how this works. Go honeymoon like normal people."

"But we're already here—" Annie says.

"I will stand here and slap the both of you repeatedly until you leave," Johanna threatens. "No one cleans up after their own wedding. Amateurs."

"Come on, Annie," I say, taking her hand. "She'll really do it. Goodnight, Jo."

She just snorts and walks away, kicking some autumn leaves around on the floor. I make a face after her and Annie giggles.

"Saw that, pretty boy!" Johanna calls.

I blink, impressed. "Now that's scary."

Annie agrees, eyes wide.

We walk hand-in-hand to our room. Annie's emerald green dress trails the floor. It's a beautiful construction of silk. It makes her eyes pop. Once again, I have something to thank Cinna for.

That electric feeling from earlier is buzzing through my veins. Annie's hand is clammy, and she is avoiding my gaze. I'm thinking about the shape of her lips and the taste of her skin, about how her hair will look when I take all the clips out of it. We've slept together for ten years now, but we've never actually _slept_ together. We were waiting until marriage on my request. Well, now we're married.

I stop in front of our door. Annie does too, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. I tilt her chin up so she'll look at me. Her green eyes are wide and apprehensive. "I love you," I tell her.

"I love you, too."

"You know we don't have to do this tonight if you're not ready. I won't make you do anything you don't want to."

Annie shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just nervous. I'm…kind of new at this. But I want to. I wanted to years ago, but I knew how badly you wanted to do it right. Well, there's no dodging it now, Odair."

"Who said anything about dodging?" I lean down to her ear. "...Odair."

She squeals when I scoop her into my arms and open the door, carrying her through the threshold. I kick it closed and gently set her down on the bed. There's an awkward pause while we try to figure out what to do next. Then Annie grabs the front of my jacket and draws my face to hers, starting where we always do. The kisses grow in intensity and length. I twist my fingers in her hair and pull out the clips. Her curls cascade down her shoulders. Her hands firmly remove my jacket, then my vest, and loosen my tie. She unbuttons my shirt, tenderly tracing the lines of my chest and stomach with her fingertips.

I lower us down. Her head hits the pillow and her hair flies in every direction. Our actions are becoming less nervous, more assured. We get rid of my shirt and our shoes. My hand moves of its own accord to the silk ribbons holding her dress in place. I catch myself, suddenly impaired by my former certainty. I don't want this to be muscle memory. This is Annie. My wife.

Annie senses my hesitation and breaks our kiss, looking at me for a long time. Her eyes are like the sea glass that hangs from my neck, green flecked with brown and blue. I focus on her eyes as she takes my hand and brings it to the ribbons, working with my fingers to untie them.

"It's okay," she murmurs, bringing my hand to her cheek.

We go back to kissing. Like pressing a rewind button, we just go back to kissing. Caressing. Eventually I get to Annie's dress again and we get her out of it. She doesn't have to say 'it's okay,' again. We don't have to start over.

She holds my hand through the night.

* * *

><p><strong>And there's the wedding for you. I hope it's not too cheesy. I tried. I also tried to keep it PG-13. Things are moving right along now. I'm afraid to say it will be over soon. :(<strong>

**Let me know what you think!**


	65. M: District Thirteen: The Reaping

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **T**he** R**eaping

* * *

><p>The next week is bliss. My many problems haven't disappeared by any means, but between training for the Capitol and tugging Annie around everywhere else I go, my life seems...simpler, somehow. One could even say relatively normal. I look at the soldiers around me and I see more similarities than differences. People don't avoid me or humor my mindless babbling anymore. I have real, meaningful conversations. I'm accepted.<p>

I'm abruptly grounded back down to reality when I go to visit Johanna and Katniss in the infirmary only to get bombarded by accusations.

"When were you going to tell us that you're going to the Capitol and we aren't?!" Johanna snarls at me, looking murderous.

"I didn't want to bring it up and upset you," I admit.

"Yeah, well, consider me upset. I had to hear from Katniss, who had to hear it from Haymitch. She's negotiating with Coin right now. We're going."

"Jo, I don't think you should—"

"Oh, don't even _start_, Finnick," she hisses. Yikes. I know I'm in trouble when she uses my name and not some twisted endearment like 'pretty boy' or 'fish face.' She gives me a look of genuine betrayal that makes me ashamed. "You should have told me."

"I know. I'm sorry. Really, Johanna, I am."

"Sorry doesn't fix it. Maybe I would have a better shot at going if you made me realize I didn't qualify. I would have quit the morphling and gotten back in shape. Now the only hope I have is a crash course, and that all depends on Katniss's good graces." Johanna sighs. "I'm just lucky she's got a conscience."

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" I ask.

"…Maybe," Johanna says, considering. "Go talk to Katniss when she gets back. I'm tired of hearing about her and Peeta all the time."

"Her and Peeta?"

"Didn't you hear? She went to see him after your wedding. He iced the cake, you know, surrounded by guards and handcuffed. But they still let him out of that little box. Then he said he wanted to see her and…well, I don't know, said something that got under her skin. She's been moody ever since." Johanna shrugged. "Anyway, she wants girl talk, I think, but you're better at that than I am."

"Why doesn't she talk to Prim?"

"Hell if I know. Now leave me alone so I can be mad at you for a while."

I don't get to see Katniss until the next day, where she is laid on her cot in the infirmary looking utterly exhausted. Johanna is already asleep.

"Training?" I inquire, pulling up a chair next to her.

She nods. "It was harder than we anticipated. I could hardly do anything because of my ribs, and Johanna's just in bad condition all around. She's sleeping it off now, but tonight is going to be tough."

"Why?"

"I'm getting treatment for my ribs in about an hour," she replies. "It will speed up the healing process. Otherwise I won't be able to go to the Capitol. My morphling drip won't be here for her to use, because it reacts badly with the other medication."

"You've let her use your morphling?"

"Yes. She needs it more than I do."

I let that slide. It's probably true. "I'm sorry. About not telling you about the Capitol sooner."

"I'm not angry at you," Katniss says. "Even if you had told me, it wouldn't have sped up the healing process. I would have still been bedridden for at least another month, and Soldier York wouldn't have even gotten the opportunity to tell me about the treatment, probably. Johanna's the only one with a good reason to be mad at you. She might have recovered enough to go by now."

"Yes. I know. It was still stupid of me to keep it a secret like that," I say. "I should have known better."

"That's not the same as what you did before, Finnick," Katniss assures me. "Besides, you had a lot on your mind. How's Annie?"

"Wonderful. We're the happiest we've ever been in our entire lives, I think." I pause. "How's Peeta?"

Katniss grimaces. "He's…coherent. He wanted to talk to me after your wedding."

"How did that go?"

"Not well. He doesn't love me anymore." She says the words blandly, like they are stones in her mouth that she is careful to form without emotion. It's like we're discussing the weather or what's for lunch.

"That's not really true," I tell her. "They hijacked him. His perception of you is warped. It's not what he really thinks."

"Yes, it is. They may have messed with his memories, but his thoughts and feelings are completely his own." Katniss swallows. "Who's to say that his perception of me wasn't warped before, and that what he sees now is the truth? I used him for my own advantages, just like Haymitch did, just like the President did. That's why he was so mad at me after the first Games, you know. Because he realized that I didn't love him like he loved me. And then I was so mad after the Quarter Quell because Haymitch did the same thing to me…it's so hypocritical. I'm no better than they are."

I open my mouth to say something, but a doctor walks in and interrupts us. He tells me that I have to leave so he can start the treatment on Katniss's ribs. "Trust me, you don't want to be here," he says.

"Alright," I reply. I touch Katniss's hand. "Good luck. With everything. I know you'll get through just fine."

"Thanks, Finnick," she says with a small smile.

Annie is combing her hair when I walk into our compartment. She looks up and smiles radiantly when she sees me. "How are they?"

"Johanna's not talking to me. Katniss is worried about Peeta. They're both in training so they can come to the Capitol. Tonight is going to be horrible for both of them, but they'll be better in the morning. How is Delly?" Annie has taken to chatting with Delly Cartwright or Greasy Sae while I visit the infirmary. They are an unlikely trio, but somehow they have become good friends over the past weeks.

"She's as lovely as ever," says Annie, putting down the hairbrush. "I'm sorry to hear about Johanna and Katniss. Do you think President Coin will let them go to the Capitol?"

"Honestly? I don't think Coin will be able to stop them even if she wanted to."

* * *

><p>The next time I go to visit Johanna and Katniss in the infirmary, the doctors tell me that they aren't patients anymore. They've bunked together in a compartment not far from the one I share with Annie. I try to imagine living with Johanna and feel a sudden pang of sympathy for Katniss. Then again, they have practically been roommates since Katniss's televised brush with death. Perhaps they've even become friends.<p>

When I occasionally catch glimpses of them in training, I squelch the notion. They are not friends. They're more like motivators for each other. When one falls down, the other helps them to their feet through any means necessary—berating, begging, force, threats. Their relationship is not tender or loving, but it is intimate and strong. They are two stone pillars holding each other upright.

After training I find Annie talking to Delly and we go to lunch. Today the cafeteria is buzzing with activity. When we retrieve our meal, I see why. It is beef stew—real, flavorful beef from District Ten cattle according to Greasy Sae. "Oh, yum," Delly laments as we sit down. "This is a pleasant surprise." With Delly, everything is a pleasant surprise. It's one of the nice things about her.

"Look at everyone," Annie murmurs, her eyes wide as they travel around the room. "They're so…cheerful."

It's true. The food has brightened everyone's spirits tremendously. Faces seem happier, chatter is full of laughter. We eagerly dig in when Katniss, Gale, and Johanna join us, talking about training.

"I think we might actually have a shot at going to the Capitol," Johanna declares, spearing a potato on her fork. She's decided to talk to me again, although not out of forgiveness as much as lack of other company. Johanna holds impressive grudges. "We're near the top of our class. York says that all we have to do now is pass the Block."

"What's the Block?" Delly asks politely.

"It's an artificial city block designed to look like a Capitol war zone," I explain. "Soldiers train and get tested there. It's partially holographic, partially stage props, but it looks ridiculously realistic when you're training."

Annie's fingers twitch in my hand. I know she's thinking of the nightmares the Block has given me this week. I rub the pad of my thumb along her knuckles and switch the topic. "Oh, Delly, did I ever tell you the story about the sea turtle that swam off with my hat?"

"Not this again," Johanna snorts.

"Johanna thinks I made it up," I say, rolling my eyes dramatically. "But I swear every word is true. Annie was there, weren't you?"

"Oh, yes, it was quite a sight."

"That doesn't prove anything," Johanna mutters. I glare at her.

"I'd love to hear the story," says Delly obliviously.

"Well, I was walking with Annie on the beach in District Four. I had this hat to keep the sun out of my eyes. It was my favorite hat—I'd had it forever. This huge wave came out of nowhere and just knocked us to the ground. Once I got all the water out of my eyes I realized my hat was gone, so I went in the water looking for it. All of a sudden Annie pointed to something and cried out, 'Look, it's over there!' So I looked over and I saw my hat bobbing on the surface a few yards out. Only it was moving on its own. When I swam closer, I realized that this _giant_ sea turtle was wearing it on its head. I mean, this thing was huge! It put whales to shame—"

I stop when I notice that Katniss is staring at three people standing behind Johanna. One of them is clutching a lunch tray and is wearing handcuffs, looking like some kind of prisoner. His blonde hair and blue eyes are familiar, but the pinched scowl on his face is not.

"Peeta!" Delly exclaims. "It's so nice to see you out"—she glances nervously at the guards—"and about."

"What's with the fancy bracelets?" Johanna drawls, quirking an eyebrow.

"I'm not quite trustworthy yet. I can't even sit here without your permission," Peeta replies bitterly, nodding at the guards. He's purposefully ignoring Katniss, who is seated directly across from Johanna.

"Sure he can sit here," Johanna says, patting the seat next to her without as much as a glance to check with the rest of us. She grins amiably as the guards nod and Peeta sits. "We're old friends. Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's screams."

Annie, who's seated on Johanna's other side, covers her ears with her hands and curls up. I shoot Johanna an acidic glare as I put my arm around her to comfort her. Something tells me this is payback—like I said, Johanna holds impressive grudges, and this is the first time I've ever really heard her talk about the Capitol. She knows it's going to upset Annie, which upsets me.

"What?" says Johanna innocently. "My head doctor says I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy."

Like Johanna needs an excuse to not censor her thoughts.

We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes while I try to bring Annie back to reality. Once she's picking at her stew again, Delly pats her hand and says, "Annie, did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing."

I feel myself tense up as Annie hesitantly leans across Johanna to look at him. "Thank you, Peeta. It was beautiful."

"My pleasure, Annie," he says. And he almost sounds like his old self.

Suddenly I don't want to be here anymore, and I _really_ don't want Annie to be here anymore. I gather our trays in my free hand and stand up, bringing her to her feet. "If we're going to fit in that walk, we'd better go," I tell her. I look at the source of my discomfort briefly. "Good seeing you, Peeta."

"You be nice to her, Finnick," he replies with a falsely benign smile directed at Annie. "Or I might try to take her away from you."

"Oh, Peeta," I say in the same sugary tone, "don't make me sorry I restarted your heart."

As we leave, I shoot Katniss a concerned glance. I didn't realize that Peeta was this…different. It's like he has been replaced with another person entirely.

"We weren't planning on going for a walk, were we?" Annie implores, looking confused.

"No. I just…I didn't want to be there anymore," I say.

"He's scary," she agrees.

"He didn't used to be," I sigh. "Annie, will you do me a favor and just stay away from Peeta right now? He's not on the friendliest terms with me."

Annie frowns. "He's never hurt me before."

"I know. But he never hurt Katniss before now, either, and I don't know how much of him the President took away. I know the old Peeta wouldn't ever hurt you. This one? There's no telling what he might do. Please, Annie? At least don't talk to him alone."

"Alright, Finnick. I won't."

As it turns out, I don't have anything to be worried about. The next day during training—the only time I don't have Annie with me—Peeta is there, manacle-free, flocked by two guards. The cameras are filming me today for propos, so I try not to let the apprehensiveness show on my face. Peeta doesn't care about me since Katniss is in the room, but that doesn't mean I'm taking my eye off him.

Things are busier as the date for deployment nears. My exam is scheduled and I pass all four parts. The Block rattles me the most—it is a simulation to target your weakness. I'm hurled into the middle of a battle and my orders are to infiltrate a collapsing warehouse to retrieve valuable information. At one point I'm forced to choose between trying to dig another soldier out of rubble or run into the warehouse and finish the mission before the entrance closes.

I grit my teeth, swallow the bile rising in my throat, and run toward the entrance of the warehouse.

Boggs congratulates me when I reach the end. I don't feel like I've done anything congratulatory. He stamps my hand with a number and tells me I'm on his squad.

When I find Annie waiting for me in the compartment, I fall into her arms sobbing.

Later that day I'm told to report to Command. I recognize Gale, Boggs, and Plutarch when I arrive. There are five others who are unfamiliar to me. Boggs tells me to line up with Gale and the others—I'm in a special division of sharpshooters, and he is my commanding officer. Katniss is the last to make it. She shows Boggs the number on her hand and joins us. I catch her eye and give her a discreet thumbs-up.

Plutarch begins speaking. "Welcome, soldiers," he says. "You're here today to learn what things you'll be facing in the Capitol. I recommend you pay careful attention. Something I say might just save your life."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Even in military briefings Plutarch can't resist spicing things up with his signature dramatic flair.

"Snow knows that the Capitol is our last target and his last foothold, therefore he's overcompensated in its defense. There will be a number of obstacles in civilian areas, as well as Peacekeeper headquarters and especially around official Capitol buildings." He presses a button and a holographic image of a building leaps into the air, rotating slowly for our viewing. "This, for example, is the area surrounding the Peacekeepers' barracks. Not unimportant, but not the most crucial of targets, and yet look." He types something into a keyboard and lights of various colors begin flashing all around the holograph. "Each light is called a pod," he explains. "It represents a different obstacle, the nature of which could be anything from a bomb to a band of mutts. Make no mistake, whatever it contains is designed to either trap you or kill you…"

Whatever he says next is lost to my ears, because the rotating holograph is the only thing that matters, the blinking lights. Katniss moves beside me, stepping forward out of line. I follow her until we're both standing in front of the holograph. Plutarch has stopped speaking and is looking at us, but it doesn't matter. I press my fingers on a red glow in a miniature doorway and share a glance with Katniss, who's touching a blinking green light on the street.

"Ladies and gentlemen…" I whisper.

Her voice is louder than mine as she finishes the thought I can't bear to utter, booming through the nearly silent Command room.

"Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

><p><strong>I had to fit a lot into this chapter. Sorry if it seems a bit rushed or disjointed. Things are on a roll now! Finnick and Katniss have officially been "reaped" for their last Hunger Games!<strong>


	66. M: District Thirteen: Damaged Goods

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **D**amaged **G**oods

* * *

><p>It's almost unbelievable. All the horrors in my life have revolved around the Hunger Games. I have wished so many times that I had never been reaped. That I died in the arena. That the Hunger Games didn't exist.<p>

And now I've signed myself up for one.

Katniss gives a little hiccup of a laugh. What else can we do but laugh at the sheer irony of it all? We've trained and begged and sweated to participate in the very thing that has ruined our lives. I feel deceived. I didn't know what I was getting into when I signed up for this. Yet even if I knew, I would have done it. I would do anything to take down President Snow.

"I don't even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch," Katniss says, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yeah, we're already the two best-equipped soldiers you have," I say.

"Do not think that fact escapes me," he says impatiently. "Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish."

We get back to our places. Katniss's eyes are fixed on Plutarch with the utmost concentration, but I can't look at the holograph again without wanting to scream. I stare at my feet silently, asking and answering my own frantic questions. What have I gotten myself into? Horror. Annie. What is Annie going to do when she finds out? She'll have a breakdown. I won't be able to go. But I need to go. I don't have any choice now, anyway. I'm as obligated now as when I was reaped. I have no choice. District Thirteen doesn't feed deserters.

I wait for Katniss in the hallway after the briefing. She gravitates toward me and I don't know what to say for a minute. "What will I tell Annie?" I whisper hopelessly.

"Nothing. That's what my mother and sister will be hearing from me," Katniss says. She's got that steelly tone in her voice again, like she's spitting out rocks instead of words.

"If she sees that holograph—"

"She won't. It's classified information," Katniss points out. "It must be. Anyway, it's not like an actual Games. We're just overreacting because—well, you know why. You still want to go, don't you?"

"Of course," I say. "I want to destroy Snow as much as you do."

"It won't be like the others," Katniss chants like a mantra. "This time Snow will be a player, too."

Haymitch interrupts us before I can respond. "Johanna's back in the hospital," he reports urgently.

"Is she hurt? What happened?" Katniss drills.

"It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier's potential weaknesses, so they flooded the street."

Katniss and I glance at each other, equally confused. Johanna can swim just fine. I don't see how a flood is her particular phobia, and I can't imagine how she would have ended up in the hospital again unless there was some underlying circumstance, like getting her foot caught in something or being weighed down too much to tread water. "So?"

"That's how they tortured her in the Capitol," Haymitch explains. "Soaked her and then used electric shocks. In the Block she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn't know where she was. She's back under sedation." He pauses while we digest this information. I can't believe it. I can't believe she never told me, can't believe I never pressed her for answers, can't believe I never noticed something was wrong. Looking back I recall her recent filthiness, her aversion to rain, how she demanded I dry her tears when she cried. "You two should go see her," Haymitch continues. "You're as close to friends as she's got."

What a sad truth that is. Johanna never had anyone for as long as I can remember. She always pushed people away. I just assumed it was her nature. No one survives like Johanna has by loving people. Now she lies in a hospital bed, weak, vulnerable, defeated. What has she survived for? Two people who are too wrapped up in their own lives to notice her chronic fear. I feel something like gratitude toward Haymitch. He isn't friends with Johanna, he may not even like her, but I think he sees something of himself in her. At least he is looking out for her, which is more than I can say.

"I better go tell Plutarch," he sighs. "He won't be happy. He wants as many victors as possible for the cameras to follow in the Capitol. Thinks it makes for better television."

_Once a Gamemaker, always a Gamemaker_, I think bitterly.

"Are you and Beetee going?" Katniss asks.

"As many young and attractive victors as possible. So, no. We'll be here," says Haymitch with a snort. He turns and throws a glance in our direction before leaving.

"I'm going to see Johanna," I tell Katniss. "Are you coming?"

"No, there's something I need to do first," she replies. I shrug and head in the direction of the hospital while she lingers outside of Command.

Johanna is still asleep from the sedative when I arrive. Or at least that's what I think. When I sit down on the edge of her bed and gently take her hand, she snatches it out of my grip.

"Taking advantage of a woman in her weakest moment, huh, Prettyboy?" she slurs, struggling to open her eyes. "Fortunately, I didn't think any better of you. Just look at your wife."

I shake my head at her, letting the comment about Annie slide. "Johanna, when are you ever going to learn to keep your mouth shut?"

"When I die," she replies hollowly.

Silence stretches between us at those three little words. Their weight is crushing, disproportionate to their size. Johanna seems to shrink into herself as the silence drags on, growing grayer and stiller. For a second I wonder if the silence is killing her.

"I didn't pass," she whispers. "I didn't make it. I'm not going. All that talk, all that hard work, and I don't get to go." I half expect her to add, "It's not fair," but she doesn't. She knows all too well that life isn't fair, and she isn't going to waste her breath on the obvious.

"I saw the holograph of the Capitol," I say. "They're sending us into another Hunger Games. That's all it is. Another Games. They're filming it and everything."

Johanna raises her eyebrows at this information, but she doesn't seem especially surprised. She probably expected the worst. "Snow is playing this time."

"That's what Katniss said."

"Man, can you believe my luck? The one time I would've volunteered. The one time it would have been an _honor_, and I don't get reaped." Johanna shakes her head. "It's all his fault, too."

"Jo, why didn't you tell me what they did to you?" I ask. "I could have helped you, I could have—"

"Oh, shut up, Odair," she says, venom entering her tone. "You can't help me get over my torture any more than I can help you get over yours. I never asked you about that, did I? So repay the favor and don't expect me to pour my heart out. It's not going to happen. He damaged us, and we can't be fixed. Deal with it."

A tear falls from the corner of her eye and drips down her chin. She doesn't protest when I wipe it away with my thumb. She probably would have if she could move. "We're damaged, but not beyond repair, Johanna," I tell her. "I can't claim that I'm healed, but I am healing. I'm getting better every moment because someone is fixing me a little bit at a time."

"You're lying to yourself," Johanna says. "Crazy can't fix crazy. She's just masking your pain. She's your morphling, not the cure."

I shake my head. "No. That's not true. Because of her I faced what President Snow did to me. I didn't let it ruin what I have with her. But that's only because I let her help me." I keep my hand on her cheek, stanching the flow of tears. "Please, Johanna, let someone help you."

"There's no one crazy enough," she says. Her eyes are growing heavier. I know that the sedative is dragging her back under. It's amazing she's managed to stay awake this long.

When her eyes finally close, I remove my hand and stand up. She looks young and defenseless in her sleep, like the little girl from District Seven who was reaped the year after my victory, who climbed up on stage with wide, terrified eyes that concealed the deceptive, brutal warrior within.

Perhaps the warrior is now concealing the girl.

Someone behind me touches my shoulder. I jump and turn around to see Annie. "I thought I might find you here," she says, her green eyes wandering down to Johanna's still form. "Sae told me what happened to her. She said she saw them taking her from the Block. How is she?"

"I don't know," I admit. I raise my eyes to Annie's sad, beautiful face. "Do you know why she panicked when the Block flooded?"

Annie makes a little whimpering noise and closes her eyes, clutching her fists at her sides. That is all the answer I need. I take her into my arms and she sobs into my chest. "I'm sorry," she gasps. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Like a broken record she repeats it. "I'm sorry."

"I know, it's okay," I tell her. How can I hold it against her? It wasn't a lie, not even a lie of omission. It is something that Annie can't talk about, literally _can't_ talk about. How can I hold it against her when I'm going to follow Katniss's advice and never utter a word about the holograph?

It scares me how easy the decision is. How easy it will be to look Annie in the eye and tell her that it's going to be okay, that there's nothing to worry about, that nothing is going to happen to me. Like every other time I visited the Capitol, I will refuse to describe what awaits me.

"Come on," I say, taking her hand and gently leading her out of the hospital. Away from Johanna, who will never know that anyone shed tears for her sake, who will never know that anyone apologized for her pain. Johanna, who refuses to believe that anyone cares, that healing is possible, even if it is plain before her closed eyes.

Annie stares down at my feet for a while as we walk down the hallway. Slowly she recovers herself and lifts her eyes up to my face. I stop walking. I don't know where we are.

"What did they tell you?" she asks. "What's going to happen?"

Her green eyes are dark, bright, chaotically flecked with gold and brown. One has a single spot of blue. Perfect eyes, mad eyes, loving, frightened, beautiful eyes. Annie's eyes.

"It's going to be okay," I tell her. "There's nothing to worry about."

Too, too easy. It scares me.

* * *

><p><strong>So...much...angst... I guess I always imagined Johanna's failure wounded her more deeply than she would admit. If she cried in front of Katniss, just think about what she said in front of Finnick. It saddens me.<strong>

**Sorry for the delay and the length. I was on vacation, but now I'm back!**


	67. M: District Thirteen: Assignment

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict **T**hirteen - **A**ssignment

* * *

><p>"I think we're going to do something important," I tell Annie as we lay in bed one night, separated by the sheets. It has been a week since the reaping of the members for Squad 451. There are nine of us altogether—Boggs, our commander; Jackson, second-in-command and by far the best sniper I've ever seen; Gale, who probably the most versatile of the group in more ways than one; Leeg 1 and Leeg 2, the identical dynamic duo; Mitchell, the quiet and deadly one; Homes, who is equally quiet and deadly; and, of course, there's Katniss and me. The victors.<p>

I've come to enjoy the company of my squad. I know I can trust them to have my back. It is not like the Hunger Games, where you can trust no one. Already it is different. With this knowledge, each passing day the terror subsides and is replaced by an excitement to assist in the battle to destroy Snow.

"Hm?" Annie is half asleep, but I'm too eager about the assignment my squad is receiving tomorrow, if Beetee's information is accurate, to close my eyes.

"We're getting our assignment tomorrow, hopefully. We're going to the Capitol to finally do something. With our skills, it must be something important. Something big."

She opens her eyes and looks up at me, resting her chin on my chest thoughtfully. "I hope it's something small," she says. "I hope you get shipped to the most peaceful part of the city where nothing can hurt you."

I kiss her forehead. "I know you do. But what's the point of me going off to war if I don't accomplish anything?"

"Coming home safely," Annie says. "That's the point."

As it turns out, Annie doesn't have anything to worry about. When Plutarch interrupts our training session the next morning, he tells us that we have been handpicked as the faces of the invasion and dubbed the 'Star Squad.' Essentially the cameras are going to follow us around for propaganda.

Everyone is taken back, disappointed, angry. "What you're saying is, we won't be in actual combat," Gale begins.

"You will be in combat," Plutarch says, "but perhaps not always on the front line. If one can even isolate a front line in this type of war."

"None of us wants that," I pitch in stubbornly. "We're going to fight."

"You're going to be as useful to the war effort as possible," Plutarch snaps. "And it's been decided that you are of most value on television. Just look at the effect Katniss had running around in that Mockingjay suit. Turned the whole rebellion around. Do you notice how she's the only one not complaining? It's because she understands the power of that screen."

Katniss has been curiously silent, but now she speaks up. "It's not all pretend, is it? That'd be a waste of talent."

"Don't worry, you'll have plenty of real targets to hit. But don't get blown up," Plutarch warns her. "I've got enough on my plate without having to replace you. Now get to the Capitol and put on a good show."

We are dismissed, most of us grumbling under our breath after Boggs and Heavensbee are out of earshot. "Put on a good show," I mimic sourly. "If I wanted to do that, I would have just stayed where I was."

"Don't be like that," Jackson says, overhearing me. "Look, it's not all bad. At least we're doing _something_." But her heart isn't in the encouragement, so it is less than uplifting. She is as disappointed with the arrangement the rest of us.

Annie isn't happy when I tell her the news either, even though I assure her that I will be in little to no danger. "We're actors posing for the cameras," I say.

"That's how it always starts," she replies. Before I can get more out of her, she has covered her ears and doesn't emerge from her head for an hour, no matter how much I beg her to return.

We make love the night before I am scheduled to ship out, and it isn't until then that I realize that I am as afraid for Annie as she is for me. We clutch each other in the smothering darkness of our apartment, desperately trying to bask in us, in ourselves, to warmly invite a piece of the other into our hearts and gently nurture it, hope it is enough to last until I come back. Annie falls asleep with her head on my shoulder, and for the first time I regret having volunteered for this mission, I wish I could just curl up inside her and not exist to anyone else but her. I watch her sleeping face and I try to memorize it, to sketch it out in my mind with gentle, precise strokes, to capture her in the image. Every detail—the freckles on her nose, the fine wrinkles on her forehead, the shape of her lips, and the point of her chin—I want all of it, every flaw, every perfection, everything that makes her who she is. I want all of her.

She wakes up screaming early in the morning. We don't let go of each other until it is almost time for me to fly out. I don't have to say anything to her. I gently grab her arms and disentangle them from my waist. Her chest starts to heave as the panic erupts inside her. She buries her face in the pillow so I don't have to hear the broken sobs that force their way out. I get dressed while she calms down, while she can't see me. When everything is ready, I kneel down beside her and take her hand, slipping something inside. She clutches the necklace with Mags's locket and the sea glass in her fist. She doesn't have to ask what it is.

"That doesn't need to see war," I whisper.

Annie lifts her head from the pillow. For the first time in years I see silver steel flash in her eyes, remnants of the strength that Snow obliterated when he took almost everything from her. It is polished by the tears that shine on her cheeks. "Neither do you."

"I don't see war. I am war," I tell her. "You are peace. We can't exist without each other." I don't think I'm making sense, but I don't care. I take her face in my hands and I kiss her, I kiss the tears from her face, I kiss the trembling from her mouth, I kiss the freckles on her nose and the wrinkles on her forehead. "I love you, Annie."

"I love you, too, Finnick." She grips my hand so hard that it is almost painful. "Come back. Please come back to me."

She isn't talking to me. She's appealing to something better, something bigger, I don't know what, but it's there, around us in that moment—the universe, the world, something that will keep the promise with me. I don't tell her that we don't need cosmic intervention, because nothing short of that ancient place called Hell will keep me from her side.

"Always," I say instead. I give her one last kiss. When I pull back, that steel is still in her eyes, and I hope it stays there, armor inside of her protecting her from what I can't: her own mind. I stand up and turn away, out the door, down the hallway. I can't bear to look at her, to say goodbye. What I've said is close enough already.

As I pass the hospital, I consider saying something to Johanna, something to let her know I'm leaving, but I decide against it. I've said what I can to her.

The rest of Squad 451 is saying goodbye to their family and friends on the Hangar when I arrive. Katniss embraces her mother and Prim. Gale's siblings clamber around him noisily while his mother frets. Homes kisses his wife, and Jackson says goodbye to her young son, who is only ten and will be staying with a close friend. I guess Boggs and Mitchell and the Leeg sisters are like me, and said goodbye to their loved ones in private. Or maybe they just don't have a family to miss.

I don't linger on the Hangar. I climb on to the hovercraft and sit between Mitchell and Leeg 2. Slowly the others fill in—first Homes, who takes his place on the other side of Mitchell, next Katniss, then Jackson, and finally Gale. We sit in silence like statues, not looking at each other. I'm grateful. No one notices that I am the only one whose eyes are red and puffy.

We drop in District Twelve and from there take a functional, no-nonsense cargo car packed with soldiers and supplies. The journey takes a couple of days along bumpy roads. We sleep sitting up, heads on our packs or, if you're lucky, the shoulder of a friend. I'm not lucky. Every time we are allowed to stop and stretch our legs, I have a sore muscles and kinks all along my neck and back.

"I don't think they could pack us tighter if we were sardines," I say to Mitchell as we are stretching.

"What are sardines?"

"You know, those fish that they pack in cans," I explain. "They smell bad."

Mitchell stares at me blankly. Then he frowns, eyebrows knitting together. "You don't exactly smell like fresh linens either, Odair."

I gape after him as Boggs calls us back in the car. Did he really think I was insulting his odor? I turn to share a smile with Annie, who will surely find this amusing. But she isn't there. The smile disappears from my face.

"Soldier Odair! Get a move on!"

I grab my pack and hoist myself into the car, making a mental note to tell Annie about it after this is all over. It will make her laugh. I think we will both need a laugh when this is all over.

Eventually we get off the cargo car for the last time and begin our trek through the tunnel that runs through the mountain to the Capitol. It is a six-hour walk. By the time it is over with, I begin to miss the cargo car. It somehow felt bigger than this tunnel.

The light starts off as a bright dot that slowly grows brighter until we are standing at the end of the tunnel and the beginning of the Capitol. My eyes grow wide as I take in the ruins of the city that I have grown to hate. The vivid colors of the buildings are subdued by smog, by smoke and dust and death. The exotic creatures that used to swarm the streets have gone into hiding, and in their place is a colony of uniform gray rebels buzzing around tents. Some of them are bandaged up, bloody.

Katniss steps into place beside me, eyes scanning the cityscape. She does not seem bewildered by the condition of the great metropolis. She just seems cold as she takes it all in.

"Follow me, Squad 451," Boggs calls, waving a hand. "I'll take you to where we will be camping."

Katniss's hand rests on her specialized bow as we venture out of the safety of the tunnel and into the open. Her eyes skim the sky, the tents, the outskirts of the city, until they finally come to rest on me.

"Let the games begin," she whispers.

* * *

><p><strong>Eh...short chapter. Important though. Sad, when you think about it. I was going to have him talk to Johanna, but she already got her emotional chapter. I really wanted Finnick's last goodbye to belong to Annie.<strong>

**Has anyone else seen the new trailer that just came out for the _Catching Fire_ movie? So excited! **


	68. M: The Capitol: Knots

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **K**nots

* * *

><p>It is almost surreal.<p>

Four days of war, and I am bored out of my mind. All of Squad 451 is. We are a disinformation team, designed to confuse the Capitol by shooting active and inactive pods. Cressida and her crew follow us around while we do this, but I can't imagine they are using much of our footage. No, the real meat of the propos comes from the front lines, where hundreds of soldiers are fighting for their lives. Squad 451 doesn't do much but shoot pods we know are harmless, run through the streets in a dramatic fashion, and foolishly hope that Command will assign us a job that actually matters.

It is surreal that after four days of this, just long enough to lure us into a false sense of security, one of us dies.

It happens during a standard disinformation mission. We march through streets that are already empty of enemies and shoot pods. Some of them contain obstacles. Most of them are harmless. Or so we think.

Leeg 2 shoots a pod that Boggs's Holo—a portable copy of the holograph—says contains gnat mutations. Instead it contains metal darts. They hit her. Everywhere. She falls to the ground, bloody and sliced to pieces. Leeg 1 screams and races over to her. She falls to her knees and cradles her sister's body in her arms as the life drains out of her eyes. Boggs calls in the medics, but by the time they arrive, Leeg 2 is already gone.

We go back to camp without completing the rest of the mission. The medics take Leeg 2's body back in a stretcher and ship it to District Thirteen for burial along with a request for a replacement.

Later that night, I pass by the tent the sisters shared and hear sobbing. I quietly pull the curtain back and peer inside. Leeg—there's no need to call her Leeg 1 anymore—sits on the floor, holding a pillow to her face. Her sister's pillow. Blood soaks through the knees of her pants.

"Did you get a medic to look at that?" I ask her, pointing. She looks up, startled, and reluctantly shakes her head, wiping the tears away with the back of her wrist. I jog over to Boggs's tent and ask for a first aid kit, knowing he will have it. He does, and he doesn't ask what I am using it for. He gives it to me without question.

I walk back over to Leeg's tent and find her crouched in the same position, clutching her sister's pillow. It has grime and blood on it from her uniform. I sit down across from her and gently remove her boots, her socks, and roll up her pants to her knees. Her legs are slender and muscular, caked in dried blood. Shrapnel still remains in her knee.

"This might hurt," I warn her. She nods and clutches the pillow close to her chest as I pluck out the shrapnel with tweezers. When I got all of it, I cleanse the wound and wrap it in gauze. Then I do the same to the other knee.

"Why are you doing this?" Leeg inquires after I'm done. She looks like a child, her face streaked with tears, clutching a pillow, barefoot. But she has a gun holstered on her hip.

It is a good question. I would like to call Leeg my friend, but we aren't particularly close. She has been more of a unit than a person, just one of the Leeg twins. I never got to know her or her sister individually.

I come up with an answer after a moment. "Because I know what it's like to lose family in action."

She blinks at me. Obviously this wasn't the answer she was expecting. I wrap up the discarded shrapnel in gauze and gather the rest of the materials. I turn to look at her before I go. "I am sorry about your sister, Leeg."

"Please," she whispers. "Call me Leeg 1."

I nod and leave her to grieve. After stopping by Boggs's tent to return the medical materials, I join Katniss and Gale by the heater in the center of the campsite.

"How is she?" Gale asks, his eyes shifting in my direction.

I shrug. The question is so stupid it doesn't justify an answer. Gale narrows his eyes at me, as if expecting me of treachery, although I haven't done anything to deserve it. Or maybe I have. Gale is unpredictable that way.

"Is this going to affect her performance in the field?"

"She just saw her twin sister bleed to death on the pavement, Gale," I snap. "Of course it's going to affect her performance in the field."

"Then she should go home," he says, frowning at my tone. "They would let her, in light of the situation."

"Don't even tell her that. Mark my words, she'll slap you, and you'll deserve it." I wonder when District Thirteen became 'home' for Gale. I thought he was a coal miner from Twelve.

"I'm just looking out for her best interests, and the interests of the squad. If her judgment is clouded, then it could put the rest of us in danger. Or it could put her in danger," Gale points out.

"She won't leave. She'll be more devoted to fighting this war than ever," I say. "And frankly, I still trust her to have my back. If I didn't, we wouldn't be much of a squad, would we?"

Gale opens his mouth to retort, but Katniss presses a finger to his mouth and finally looks at him.

"What would you do if it was Posy?" she asks.

That shuts him up.

The next day is even worse. Squad 451 is contained in the camp until our replacement arrives. Leeg 1 doesn't leave her tent and does not let anyone but Boggs inside. The only reason I think she even lets him in is because she does not have the authority to refuse. I stay in the tent I share with Mitchell for the majority of the day as well, emerging for only for meals. Leeg 2's death has rattled me. I was only five feet behind her. If I had not dropped to the ground when I did—if I had stood where she stood—if I had shot the pod—I would be the dead one. I would have bled out on the pavement. Who would have held me in their arms and watched me die? Probably Katniss. But I wouldn't want Katniss's to be the last face I see. I remember what I told Annie—that I would come home. And I will. I promised her, so I will.

Death did not choose me yesterday, but it was right there next to me. It could have.

When I come out of my tent for lunch, I see that these thoughts have seeped into the minds of my companions. They, too, are feeling the sudden reality of war. It was aloof until now, hiding in shadows, pretending not to exist. Now it is here in the limelight. I doubt we will complain about boredom anymore.

Boggs strolls up to the picnic table with Leeg 1 trailing silently behind him. Her steps are stiff, but other than that she is walking fine. "Our newest recruit has just arrived," he says. "Come on, we're going to the train station to meet him."

We abandon our lunch and follow him to the train station. The train has already pulled up and soldiers are evacuating, dispersing to their stations. We are the only squad waiting to greet our new recruit. Castor and Pollux have their cameras at the ready.

When he steps off the train, I don't believe my eyes. The first thought to run through my mind is that he somehow escaped, that he sneaked on the train. But he has a gun holstered at his hip and 451 stamped on his hand.

Peeta.

His blue eyes scan the station until they rest on us all gawking at him. Then he begins walking, stopping in front of Boggs and saluting. "Soldier Mellark, reporting for duty," he says. He seems smug that he has shocked us. Judging by the look on Boggs's face, even he didn't see this coming.

"Soldier Mellark, surrender your weapon," he says tightly. Peeta shrugs and hands him the gun. Boggs turns on his heel, ears crimson. "I need to make a call. Don't get too comfortable."

"It won't matter," Peeta yells after him. "The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up."

"You have to be kidding me," Leeg 1 hisses through her teeth. She has tears welling in her eyes. "My sister gave her _life_ just so you could come and ruin everything?"

Peeta blinks at her, then looks around at our group. "Oh. I thought there were two of you. They didn't tell me who it was who died. I'm sorry it was your sister."

The apology isn't consoling or sincere. His eyes rest on Katniss when he says it, as though what he really means is that he's sorry it wasn't her whose brain was pierced by a metal dart. Mitchell and Homes look ready to punch his face in, but then he turns his gaze to Leeg 1, his face softens. "Really. I am sorry."

There. That is more like the Peeta I used to know.

Leeg 1 just turns and walks away, flanked by Jackson. Gale and Homes each grab one of Peeta's arms. "Come on, tough guy, you're bunking with us until further notice," says Homes. They drag him away. Gale gives Katniss a concerned look over his shoulder.

Mitchell plants a palm over Castor's camera lens. "That's a wrap for today," he tells the crew firmly. "No more filming until we get this figured out."

"Agreed," says Cressida. They leave as well.

Katniss and I stand alone at the train station. She has not moved an inch or said a word since Peeta's abrupt arrival. I let her sit for a few more minutes before I gently touch her arm. She instantly becomes reanimated, raising her head to look at me.

"Let's go back to camp," I suggest. "I'm sure Boggs has gotten off the telephone with President Coin by now."

"It doesn't matter. She's made her opinion very clear," Katniss says. But she starts walking in the right direction anyway. I can't help but think that Katniss is right. If Coin has shipped Peeta—an emotionally, mentally, psychologically disturbed individual with an irrationally passionate hatred of Katniss—to the battlefield for the sake of the propos, it means that she is ready for the Mockingjay to cease inspiring the rebels to fight and instead give them something to fight for. She is ready for Katniss to become a martyr.

Later, Boggs storms out of his tent, has a brief and intense conversation with Jackson, then another equally brief and intense conversation with Katniss. Jackson announces that Peeta is to remain within eyeshot with two guards at all times.

Jackson writes down the rotation for the guards. Homes and Mitchell volunteer to take the first shift and watch while Peeta pitches his tent. They don't help. I end up on the four-to-eight shift with Leeg 1. Katniss comes back from her walk with Boggs and asks about her rotation. Jackson admits that she did not give her a slot.

"Why?" Katniss inquires hotly.

"I'm not sure you could really shoot Peeta, if it came down to it."

Katniss pinches her lips together and turns, addressing the entire squad. "I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. He's gone. Johanna's right. It'd be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts."

We all stare at her, shocked. Despite the fact that the squad is uncomfortable with Peeta's presence, Katniss's words are unreasonably harsh. Peeta's condition, although questionably stable, is not his fault. He is still a person. A person who is staring at Katniss's back like he wishes he could shoot her. Or himself.

"Well, that sort of comment isn't recommending you either," Jackson says. But in the end, Boggs demands we put her in the rotation. Mitchell and Homes help Peeta finish pitching his tent.

My shift starts at four, so Leeg 1 and I eat dinner with Peeta. There is not much conversation. Leeg 1 stares at her food without eating it. Peeta stabs his mashed beets with too much enthusiasm, his hands shaking periodically. During one of these spasms he drops his fork on the ground. I grab him a new one.

"Thanks," he says wearily, returning to the beets.

"I have something that might help," I say. After some fishing around in the pocket of my uniform I find what I'm looking for—the old, frayed rope. I haven't used it much since Annie's return, but I decided to bring it just in case.

Peeta looks like I just offered him a snake. "Is this a poorly disguised suggestion for me to tie my own noose?"

"No, it's not long enough for that. My doctor made sure," I respond. "He gave it to me when I was in District Thirteen. It's therapeutic. Whenever you feel overwhelmed, or if you just need something to occupy your hands, you tie it."

Peeta abandons the fork and accepts the rope, quickly tying it into a simple knot. "What now?"

"Untie it. Then tie it again."

He wedges his fingers into the grooves and unravels the rope, then ties it into a more intricate knot. He works on it for a while, tying at least five more knots before placing it in his pocket. "Thanks, again," he says. "But I have to ask, why are you helping me? I'm the enemy, aren't I?"

"I took pity on the beets," I say.

Peeta smiles with genuine amusement. I catch a glimpse of the real him somewhere in the expression, like the sun shining through clouds. "…Finnick," he begins reluctantly. His face falls into a concentrated frown that is all too familiar. "Look, I just want you to know that…I'm not upset with you anymore."

"That's awfully noble of you."

Peeta rolls his eyes. "I'm saying that I get it. Why you did what you did. Why you lied to me. I thought about it, and if I was in your shoes I probably would have done the same thing. And, taking into consideration that you saved my life at least once, even if it was only part of the mission, I'm done being mad. I know this doesn't make us friends, but I thought you shouldn't have to worry about me killing you in your sleep, or something."

"I never worried about that," I say. "I can take you in my sleep."

"Probably," he admits.

"And you're right, this doesn't make us friends. I trust my friends. I don't trust you." Then I add, "But I also know that it's not your fault."

We eat until Katniss and Gale walk in and Peeta's hands start shaking too much for him to get food on his fork. The three of us head back to camp. There isn't anything for us to do, since Mitchell, Homes, and Jackson are monopolizing the cards and obviously wouldn't ask Peeta to join.

One of them must take pity on us, though, because Jackson turns and squints and asks if we want to play. "Can't," I answer. "We're on duty."

"It's an open invitation. We'll teach Mellark the rules."

It is an awkward game, but eventually everyone, with the exception of Leeg 1, who doesn't play, gets used to Peeta. He almost seems normal. He does not make rude comments, does not snap at anyone. His hands don't even shake. It must be because there is no one here to remind him of Katniss, or District Twelve, or the Hunger Games, or any of those fragile topics that distress him. It leads me to believe that if he could get away from all that, he might act like he used to.

But I know better than anyone that there is no getting away from it.

We play until eight, when the shift changes and Gale and Boggs are assigned to Peeta duty. The tension between Gale and Peeta is palpable, but neither of them will do anything with Boggs there. I wonder if that was by design.

The party drifts to their sleeping bags. Boggs orders Peeta to sleep outside where he can see him. I decide to sleep outside, too, next to the heater. So do Mitchell and Jackson. Everyone else goes to their separate tents. Homes never sleeps outside—he keeps a picture of his wife in his uniform and he likes to sleep with it next to his pillow. I can hear Leeg 1 mourning her sister, trying to muffle sobs that are too anguished to cooperate. Katniss is probably sleeping. Or maybe she's just laying in her tent so she can ignore Peeta.

No one says much. I drift in and out of sleep, aware that I must wake up at four again for my shift. Sometimes I hear the soft whisper of the nylon rope as Peeta unravels it, or Mitchell's snoring, or quiet conversation between Jackson and Boggs.

A giant yawn signifies the end of Boggs's shift. Neither he nor Gale goes back to their tent when Katniss emerges for watch duty. They lay out their sleeping bags and join us near the heater.

It is quiet for some time. I am almost asleep again when I hear Peeta say, "These last couple years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth."

No one asks who he is talking to. There is only one person with whom he takes that acidic tone of voice. All of us, with the exception of Jackson, pretend to sleep.

"I never wanted to kill you," Katniss says after a slight pause. "Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as…an ally."

I remember that day Peeta almost died in the Quarter Quell. I remember how she broke down when she discovered he wouldn't make it to District Thirteen with us.

No. People don't act like that for an ally.

"Ally," says Peeta slowly. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out. The problem is I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

"Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does," I blurt out. I can remember many a night waking up to her screaming and crying. Days afterward she would ask if something was real, if this or that happened. I hate how often I have to tell her that, yes, her nightmares are real.

"Ask who?" Peeta whispers. "Who can I trust?"

Your friends, I almost say. Then I remember that he does not have friends anymore.

"Well, us for starts," Jackson offers. "We're your squad."

"You're my guards."

"That, too. But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. That's not the kind of thing we forget."

In the silence that follows, I know we are all thinking of the day the Capitol bombed Thirteen. The days in the bunker. How many of us would have died if he had said nothing? If he had not sacrificed himself to the wrath of the President?

I sleep until it is almost four. I wake up when Peeta says, "Your favorite color…it's green?"

"That's right," Katniss answers. I wonder if they've been at this for very long. "And yours is orange."

"Orange?"

"Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset. At least, that's what you told me once."

"Oh," Peeta says. "…Thank you."

But Katniss isn't finished. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." She stands up and dives into her tent without bothering to wake me. I sit up and glance at Jackson, who is stunned, and at Peeta, who is bewildered.

"It's four," I tell Jackson, stretching. "My turn. I'll go wake up Leeg 1."

"Let her sleep. I'm not tired," she replies.

"That's a lie," Peeta says. Then he hunkers down in his sleeping bag and closes his eyes, holding the rope in his hand. It is in a double-knot.

* * *

><p><strong>Longer chapter, yay! We're in the Capitol now...approaching the end...<strong>


	69. M: The Capitol: Dead

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **D**ead

* * *

><p>I spend the majority of the next morning with Katniss and Gale, shooting glass and things for the camera crew. The camera is rolling for most of the time so there is not much side conversation, for which I am grateful. It's nice to just shoot something.<p>

When we get back to camp, Peeta is playing Real or Not Real with Jackson and the other soldiers. Although everyone remains armed around him, Peeta has pretty much been accepted among the squads, even Leeg 1, who is sitting with him. When she woke up at six o'clock this morning to discover that Jackson had covered half of her shift, she was shocked and gracious—to Jackson. Leeg 1 did nothing but yell at me for allowing her to sleep while Jackson covered her shift. After that she seemed better, though. Lighter. Sometimes she answers Peeta's questions when he asks them.

"Most of the people from Twelve were killed in the fire," he says.

"Real," answers Jackson. "Less than nine hundred of you made it to Thirteen."

"The fire was my fault."

"Not real. President Snow destroyed Twelve the way he did Thirteen, to send a message to the rebels."

Peeta spots us and stares, causing every eye to turn to us. It is a bit unnerving. Jackson squints and diffuses some of the tension. "Oh, good, you're back. Katniss, it's almost time for our shift."

Not that it matters. The shifts only really count at night, when everyone is asleep. Now, at noon, everyone is responsible for Peeta's security. What Jackson is really saying is that Peeta has asked a lot of questions that she cannot answer, that someone close to him who knew him personally would need to respond to. Usually that person is Katniss, although Gale and I try to pick up the slack when we can. Gale fills him in on tidbits about District Twelve, while I recite things from his Hunger Games. But the reality is that Gale and I only know stuff _about_ Peeta—it is Katniss who actually knew _him_.

I listen in to the game for a while, intrigued by the questions and answers, watching the two curiously. There are long silences between each session, during which neither of them makes eye contact and the tension is rock solid.

"You like to sing."

"…Real," Katniss says hesitantly. Her answers are rarely clearly defined as 'real' or 'not real' unlike the rest of ours, but Jackson advised her to pick the closest and elaborate rather than respond with 'somewhat real' and confusing Peeta. "I liked to sing when I was little. That's...that's how you noticed me, in school. In music class, I raised by hand and sang the mountain song in front of everyone." Katniss ducks her head. "Now only Prim can get me to sing."

"That's not true," I put in. "You sang to Rue while she died."

Katniss looks so sad I'm almost sorry I brought it up. "Like I said, now only Prim can get me to sing."

Peeta digests this for a while. Then he asks, "Would you sing for me?"

"No." The response is immediate and hard, like a hastily erected brick wall. Peeta clenches his jaw and doesn't ask her anymore questions.

I eat lunch and come back for my shift with Leeg 1. Peeta asks me many questions about the Hunger Games like he has stored them away all day.

"My training score was an eight."

"Real, I think. It was an eight or a nine, one of the higher ones. Katniss's was an eleven the first time. The second time you both made twelves."

"Portia was my stylist."

"Real."

"The Careers called me Loverboy."

"Real. You did profess your undying love for Katniss on national television."

Peeta frowns. "I meant what I said about Katniss. That I loved her."

"…I don't know for sure, Peeta," I tell him honestly. "But that's real, I think. You definitely cared about her a lot."

Peeta is silent for almost the rest of the time. Finally, when my shift is almost up, he says, "Mags died because of me."

"Not real," I tell him. "She didn't die because of you. She died because she was brave, selfless, and a better person than you or I will ever be."

After that, Peeta lays down and sleeps.

Later that afternoon Boggs informs us that we are going to do a special propo in a city block with real active pods in it. Of course the danger is still minimal—the block as already been taken by the rebels, so there is no combat to worry about, although we're decked out in enough protective gear to run through a cross fire and emerge unharmed. I'm allowed to bring my trident, and Katniss brings her bow and arrows. Even Peeta gets a gun loaded with blanks.

"I'm not much of a shot anyway," he says with a shrug. He is aloof, staring at Pollux until we all grow a bit uncomfortable. "You're an Avox, aren't you?" he finally blurts out. "I can tell by the way you swallow. There were two Avoxes with me in prison. Darius and Lavinia, but the guards mostly called them the redheads. They'd been servants in the Training Center, so they arrested them, too. I watched them being tortured to death. She was lucky. They used too much voltage and her heart stopped right off. It took days to finish him off. Beating, cutting off parts. They kept asking him questions, but he couldn't speak, just made these horrible animal sounds. They didn't want information, you know? They wanted me to see it."

We're all staring at him now, stunned. He frowns. "Real or not real?" He has to say it again, his voice practically hysterical, before someone answers.

"Real. At least, to the best of my knowledge," Boggs murmurs, "…real."

This is almost as unsettling as Peeta's rambling. I wonder if any other Avoxes met this fate and decide that yes, they probably did. I wonder if Annie or Johanna had to watch that. My stomach twists when I come to the same conclusion. No wonder they won't talk about it.

I remember Aurora, the ambitious daughter of my first stylist, Taurus. She became an Avox after my Games, as a threat from the President to enforce my future occupation as a sex slave. Aurora, the girl with the caramel hair and diamonds under her eyes, my first kiss. The last time I saw her, she served me tea. Someone had ripped out her diamonds and her tongue. It would be so like the President to bring her to a captive Annie, to give her Aurora's history, and to torture and kill her right there. But I don't let my mind dwell on that. Aurora was probably dead long before this rebellion. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

Peeta's recount haunts us all as we make our way to the city block. When we arrive, we gather around Boggs's Holo to see what we're up against. There are two active pods—one a third of the way down that shoots bullets, another at the end that captures someone in a net for interrogation or execution. The first one should be activated by gunfire, but the second needs a body motion detector. Everyone but Peeta raises their hands when Boggs asks for volunteers to set it off. He picks Mitchell, who is the swiftest of us after Jackson and Katniss.

Messalla, Cressida's assistant, positions some smoke bombs to enhance the atmosphere and then we're off, marching down the street and shooting sections of windows. Gale hits the first pod. We duck behind walls or drop to the concrete as gunfire rains down on us. It hits no one.

"Let's go, squad," Boggs says, getting up.

"Wait, I need some close-ups," Cressida intervenes. We take a moment to film our responses, laying flat, diving into crevasses, sheltering ourselves from imaginary bullets. It is frustrating that we've been reduced to this, but at least it is amusing. I have had plenty of acting experience to pull it off, but everyone else is a bit stiff. Mitchell is the worst of all. We laugh at his facial expression as Castor zooms in. It involves gritted teeth, flaring nostrils, and red ears—although those could just be from embarrassment.

"Pull it together, 451," Boggs reprimands. But even he is suppressing a smile. He checks his Holo, adjusting it to catch good light in the smoke. His foot lands on an orange paving stone.

And then he explodes.

The bomb knocks us all to the ground. Paving stones burst into gravel, real thick dark smoke fills our lungs, and fire catches on the buildings. My ears are ringing, but I still hear and feel the second explosion. I don't know where this one comes from. Someone is screaming.

I hoist myself off the ground after it becomes clear that no other bombs are going off right now. I blink dust and smoke away and rush over to Boggs, who was at the heart of the explosion. Katniss and Homes are already there—Katniss is searching for something, Homes is trying to save Boggs's life, wrapping his legs in tourniquets. His leg stops at his knee. There's nothing left after his knee.

I tear my eyes away from the grisly scene and spot Messalla lying limp a few feet away. She was near the explosion, too. I run over to her and find that her head is covered in blood. The explosion knocked her into the wall—hard. I bend down and straighten her limbs, check for a pulse, lower my ear to her chest. There is nothing, no heartbeat, no breath. I begin resuscitation. The blast put her body in shock. After a few moments, she gasps and starts breathing again, but she is still unconscious.

When I look over at Boggs, he is holding the Holo to Katniss's eyes and it is scanning her. I frown and then notice something else—a black, oily tidal wave of something caught between gas and liquid flooding from geysers back where we came.

"Prepare to retreat!" Jackson shrieks.

"No! Look over there!" I shout back, pointing. Everyone turns and notices it, eyes widening.

"Leeg 1, over here!" Gale says, gesturing. They start shooting at the street, clearing a path for us. A bomb goes off ten feet away, making the ground shudder. I throw Messalla's prone body over my shoulder and run after them. Katniss and Homes hoist Boggs between them and scramble away from the oily matter.

I hear Katniss scream and turn to see her on the ground, Peeta standing over her with a gun pointed at her head. Mitchell tackles him from behind, but Peeta is twice his size and throws him off. There is a loud pop and Mitchell is caught in a net, screaming, bloody. It's barbed. I have seen that before on fishing boats and a feeling of dread shoots through me. Mitchell won't make it.

Jackson gives a wordless cry as she rips Peeta off of Katniss. The camera crew joins her, and together they manage to restrain him. Katniss scurries away and grabs Boggs again. The oily substance is coming down on us, making it hard to breathe, hard to see. Homes and Katniss drag Boggs into the building that the second bomb partially destroyed. I follow them into a lavish living room and down a hallway into a kitchen, where I find them collapsed on the tile floor. Castor and Pollux are struggling to drag Peeta inside, but the handcuffs that Jackson managed to put on him make him even more upset and they lock him in the closet. The door jiggles violently when he throws himself against it, but it holds.

I gently lay Messalla down on the floor, feeling her head. She has a nasty bump, but she will live. Already her eyes are starting to open.

Leeg 1 and Cressida stumble in after me, gagging and choking. The oily matter pours in after them. Gale bursts in and slams the kitchen door, coughing out the word, "Fumes!" He barely makes it to the sink before he vomits. Castor and Pollux grab towels and aprons and stuff the cracks in the door.

"Mitchell?" Homes asks hopefully. Leeg 1 shakes her head.

"What? Boggs? Boggs!" Katniss is grasping Boggs's hands. He doesn't answer her.

Other than our wheezing and Peeta's drumming on the closet door, the room is silent. Eventually it all quiets down, we catch our breath, Peeta calms down. I kneel down next to Boggs, whose eyes are vacant and empty. "He's gone?" I whisper. Katniss nods. I inhale and let it out slowly, trying to clear my mind. "We need to get out of here. Now. We just set off a street full of pods. You can bet they've got us on surveillance tapes."

"Count on it," Castor agrees. "All the streets are covered by surveillance cameras. I bet they set off the black wave manually when they saw us taping the propo."

"Our radio communicators went dead almost immediately. Probably an electromagnetic pulse device. But I'll get us back to camp," Jackson says sternly. She turns to Katniss and holds out her hand. "Give me the Holo."

Katniss clutches it to her chest protectively. "No. Boggs gave it to me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jackson snaps.

"It's true. He transferred the prime security clearance to her while he was dying. I saw it," says Homes logically. It sounds much better than Katniss's explanation.

"Why would he do that?"

Katniss hesitates before she answers. "Because I'm on a special mission for President Coin. I think Boggs was the only one who knew about it."

"To do what?" Jackson asks skeptically.

"To assassinate President Snow before the loss of life from this war makes our population unsustainable."

I blink. President Coin told _Katniss_ to assassinate Snow? Katniss, who does not have the skills or the discipline of the newest of District Thirteen recruits? It seems unlikely, and unfair. For a moment I am peeved into disbelief that Coin would choose Katniss over me. That Katniss did not tell me even though she knows I want to kill Snow as much as she does. I deserve to kill Snow as much—no, _more_ than she does. After everything he has put me through, after all I have observed about President Coin, I cannot believe that she would give Katniss such a mission. Katniss must be lying.

"I don't believe you," Jackson says. She must be on a similar train of thought. "As your current commander, I order you to transfer the prime security clearance over to me."

"No, that would be in direct violation of President Coin's orders," Katniss retorts.

And just like that, the guns are up. Despite my anger and my skepticism, I find my gun pointed at Jackson along with Gale's and Homes's. I owe Katniss too much to betray her again, even if she is lying or keeping secrets. I just wish I knew which the case is.

"It's true, that's why we're here," Cressida puts in, gesturing to herself, Castor, Pollux, and Messalla. They are the only ones without their guns raised. "Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we can film the Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it will end the war."

Jackson scowls, considering it. Then she jabs the butt of her gun at the closet. "And why is he here?"

"Because two post-Games interviews with Caesar Flickerman were shot in President Snow's personal quarters," Cressida answers. "Plutarch thinks Peeta may be of some use as a guide in a location we have little knowledge of."

"We have to go!" Gale interrupts impatiently. "I'm following Katniss. If you don't want to, head back to camp. But let's move!"

Homes unlocks the closet and hoists Peeta, unconscious now, onto his shoulder. "Ready."

"Boggs?" Leeg 1 says.

"We can't take him. He'd understand," I respond, looking down at his body. I think of my assessment on the Block, how I had to choose between a dying soldier and the completion of the mission. Choosing between dragging a dead body along and carrying out a mission to assassinate Snow seems easy by comparison, but I know this is what the Block trained me for. It is a heinous act of disrespect to leave Boggs here. What I would give to have been able to bury Mags's body. But now, like Boggs's, it is in the hands of the Capitol. It makes me sick. I turn to Katniss. "Lead on, Soldier Everdeen."

She looks down at the Holo, lost. "I don't know how to use this. Boggs said you would help me," she tells Jackson. "He said I could count on you."

I narrow my eyes. It seems like someone as meticulous as President Coin would have made sure Katniss had all the necessary qualifications to carry out a mission like this. She would have taken into consideration the possibility of Boggs's and Jackson's deaths. She would have taught Katniss to use the Holo. But then, perhaps she didn't have the time.

Jackson snatches the Holo and taps a button. An intersection appears. "If we go out the kitchen door, there's a small courtyard, then the back side of another corner apartment unit. We're looking at an overview of the four streets that meet at the intersection."

The intersection is blinking with pods in every direction. It looks like it is filled with candy. In addition, there are Peacekeepers to worry about now that they know our location. We all look up at Katniss to find her chewing her lip, thinking. "Put on your masks," she says finally. "We're going out the way we came in."

"What, that's crazy!" I say, and everyone else joins in. Katniss puts her hands up, raising her voices over ours.

"If the wave was that powerful, then it may have triggered and absorbed other pods in our path," she reasons. We are silenced, considering it. I'm actually kind of impressed.

Pollux makes some signs with his hands, and Castor nods, translating, "It may have disabled the cameras as well. Coated the lenses."

Gale inspects the black sludge on his shoe, scraping it off with a kitchen knife. "It's not corrosive," he determines. "I think it was meant to either suffocate or poison us."

"Probably our best shot," Leeg 1 says to Jackson.

We put on our gas masks. I place Peeta's over his face, pale and slack, while Homes adjusts him on his shoulder. Cressida and Leeg 1 help Messalla, who is dizzy but able to walk.

Katniss cracks open the kitchen door, revealing the goo-covered hallway and living room. She tests it with her boot and gingerly takes a few steps into it, looking back. Where her feet made indents, the goo quickly springs back into place. No footprints.

We follow her through the abandoned house and to the front door. An avalanche of goo tumbles in when she opens it, but it only lasts for a second. Out on the street, the goo nearly covers our ankles. It covers the entire block and beyond, painting everything with black tar. Katniss walks over to a suspended teardrop shape in the middle of the street. A human hand hangs from it, clutching a gun. My blood runs cold. It's Mitchell.

"If anyone needs to go back," Katniss says solemnly, "for whatever reason, now is the time to do it. No questions asked, no hard feelings."

No one leaves.

We sneak down the sludge-covered street, keeping a close eye on the surroundings. The goo must have deactivated all of the pods because we are not ambushed by anything. Tracker jacker bodies litter the street in places, and some buildings are collapsed from bombs similar to the one that took Boggs.

Eventually the goo lessens and we can see brightly painted features on the buildings. Baby blue roofs, orange and pink stones. The afternoon sun is sinking into the horizon, making it harder to see. Katniss chooses an apartment for us to rest and recover. Homes picks the lock and we file in.

We scope out the apartment using the flashlights attached to our guns. It is designed the exactly like the other one—living room, hallway, kitchen on the bottom floor, a spiral staircase leading to a windowless room on the second floor. The goo blocks out any natural daylight, but the windows are intact and Gale informs us that it is safe to remove our masks. On the second floor the lights are still on, revealing plush chairs and a wide television screen. We settle down here, flopping on the most comfortable furniture I have felt in a while.

It is silent as everyone catches their breath. A set of four or five explosions rattles the room, setting my teeth on edge. I raise my head from the sofa and reach for my gun, but Jackson assures us that it was at least five blocks away.

"Where we left Boggs," Leeg 1 says quietly.

As soon as the words leave her mouth the television springs to life, illuminating the room even further. Half of us, me included, jump up and point our guns at it. "It's alright!" Cressida shouts over the Capitol anthem. "It's just an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television is automatically activated for it."

I don't lower my gun even when my own face appears on the screen, along with everyone else in the squad. It is footage from the bomb that Boggs set off and the events that transpired. A voice-over explains what happens. How we try to recover, how the black goo sends us scurrying, how Peeta goes berserk and throws Mitchell into the barbed net, how we try to carry Messalla and Boggs to safety. The angles change as the goo coats the camera lenses. The last shot is a blurry one of Gale, alone, trying to rescue Mitchell. The reporter identifies Gale, Boggs, Peeta, Cressida, Katniss, and me by name.

"There's no aerial footage," Castor remarks. "Boggs must have been right about their hovercraft capacity."

The broadcast flickers to a shot of Peacekeepers lined up along the street behind, shooting bullets into the buildings and triggering the explosions we just heard. Then it goes to a live feed, where a reporter stands on the street with the burning rubble of the apartment building behind her as firefighters and Peacekeepers douse it with water. She pronounces us dead.

I can't take my eyes off the screen. That's it, then. The whole world thinks that we do not exist anymore. I just watched myself die on television. That's it.

I'm dead.

* * *

><p><strong>The chapters will get longer as I am forced to follow more of the book. I would say there are about three or four chapters left until the end. It's hard to believe that it's come this far...<strong>


	70. M: The Capitol: Ashes

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **A**shes

* * *

><p>"Finally, a bit of luck," Homes says.<p>

I think about the picture of his wife under his pillow, and I wonder how he can say that. I suppose that having her think he is dead is better than actually being dead. At least if she only thinks he is dead, he can still come back to her.

I hope that someone makes sure Annie does not watch this. Someone must be looking out for her—Greasy Sae, Delly, even Johanna maybe. Delly will probably break the news to her. She will demand to see the footage, and Delly will be against it, but Greasy Sae and Johanna—if Johanna even cares—will vote in favor of her watching it for closure. She will see me explode like she watched her family explode so many years ago. And then…what? What will Annie do?

I don't know. And that is terrifying.

People will try to make sure she does not hurt herself, but they will not be able to watch her all the time, especially not now that the war is reaching its climax. I wonder if she will really believe that I am dead without someone showing her a body. I wonder if she will feel that I am alive in her heart.

No, I tell myself. That is ridiculous. That is a vain hope. Annie thinks I am dead, so the only thing I can do now is try to finish the mission. That is my top priority.

We watch as they repeat the coverage over and over, finishing it off with a montage of Katniss's symbolic rise to power. The reporters depart promising an official statement from President Snow. Then the television goes off again.

"So," Gale says after a prolonged pause, "now that we're dead, what's our next move?"

"Isn't it obvious?" We all wheel around to Peeta, who is struggling to reposition himself on the couch that Homes laid him on. Everyone was so preoccupied with the broadcast that we did not even notice him wake up, but judging from the look on his face he was watching it, too. He must have seen how he went crazy, tried to kill Katniss, and hurled Mitchell into the pod. He locks his blue eyes to Gale's. "Our next move…is to kill me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jackson says immediately.

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" Peeta yells.

"You pushed him off you. You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at that exact spot," I tell him gently.

"Who cares? He's dead, isn't he?" Tears spill onto his cheeks as his face twists in self-loathing. "I didn't know. I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!"

"It's not your fault, Peeta," I say.

"You can't take me with you. It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else. Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol. Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?"

"I'll kill you before that happens," says Gale, not unkindly. "I promise."

Peeta shakes his head. "It's no good. What if you're not there to do it? I want one of those poison pills like the rest of you have."

I am surprised that Peeta does not have one. If Coin did not trust Peeta's mental stability enough to give him nightlock, then how could she have sent him into battle? The answer is simple, I suppose—she wanted him to kill Katniss. She wanted him to have a homicidal episode triggered by the chaos we just witnessed, and she didn't want him offing himself before he had the chance.

I find myself disliking Coin more and more.

"It's not about you. We're on a mission, and you're necessary, too," Katniss says. She looks around at the rest of us. "Think we might find some food here?"

The cupboards are empty, but we find some food stashed in secret places—behind mirrors, in ventilation systems, under floorboards—thanks to Messalla, who used to live in the Capitol before the rebellion. The District Thirteen soldiers are astonished at the blatant hoarding. I can't imagine what they would think about the waste at a Capitol party.

We pass around cans of soup, cookies, and other non-perishables. I end up with the cod chowder that Katniss discards in favor of lamb stew that Peeta offers her. I don't mind—cod chowder is one of my favorites, and it fills me with strange warmth to see that the painful games of Real or Not Real are paying off.

The television flickers on again while we're enjoying the cookies. First they show screenshots of the dead, just like the Gamemakers do in the Hunger Games. Seeing my face on the screen sends a chill down my spine. Next President Snow makes the official statement that was promised. He celebrates the defeat of the Mockingjay, assures us that this is the turning point in the war, that now the rebels are disheartened, the rebels have no leader, the rebels are hopeless.

Just then there is static, and President Coin's face replaces Snow's. Behind her there is no flag, no seal, no anthem, just a blank gray wall. She brusquely talks about Katniss, paints the image of an everlasting girl on fire from the Seam, the fierce survivor of poverty and battle, a voice of the people. She finishes it off by urging the rebels to fight for Katniss, to let her untimely death harden their resolve.

"I had no idea how much I meant to her," Katniss says ironically, drawing a chuckle from Gale and questioning looks from everyone else.

An altered photo of Katniss behind a backdrop of fire fills the screen for a few moments. There is no slogan. Katniss is no longer a voice—she is only a face now.

Snow comes back to the screen, his lips pressed together in a tight line. I have seen that look before. He is trying desperately to hold back his anger, and failing. "Tomorrow morning, when we pull Katniss Everdeen's body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who could save no one, not even herself!" he snarls. Then the anthem plays, the seal spins, and the screen is black.

"Except that you won't find her," I whisper, even though I know he can't hear me. They will realize that we escaped when they find no bodies other than Boggs and Mitchell. I wonder if they will make an announcement. Probably not. They will look for us in secret, kill us silently. Or maybe they will torture us for information first.

"We can get a head start on them at least," Katniss says. She holds up the Holo. "Jackson, will you show me how to use this thing?"

Jackson walks her through the basic commands, which mainly involve manipulating the projection and entering coordinates. We all stare at the holograph wearily. The streets are dotted with hundreds of blinking lights. There is no way that we will survive more than an hour strolling through town. Katniss stares too, looking very tired. "Any ideas?" she asks.

"Why don't we start by ruling out possibilities," I suggest. "The street is not a possibility."

"The rooftops are just as bad as the streets," says Leeg 1.

"We still might have a chance to withdraw, go back the way we came. But that would mean a failed mission," says Homes. He's got his hand over his pocket.

Katniss looks down at her feet. "It was never intended for all of us to go forward. You just had the misfortune to be with me."

"Well, that's a moot point. We're with you now," Jackson points out. "So, we can't stay put. We can't move up. We can't move laterally. I think that just leaves one option."

"Underground," Gale says.

Katniss clumsily types in a command on the Holo, and it zooms to show the subterranean pods. The underground tunnels are nearly identical to the streets above, but the pods are less numerous. Two doors down there is an entrance to the tunnels through a vertical tube. In order to get to that apartment from here we will have to crawl through a maintenance shaft that runs through the complex, the entrance for which is the back of a closet space.

"Okay, then," Katniss huffs, shutting off the Holo. "Let's make it look like we've never been here."

We clean up the apartment, throwing trash down the shoot, cleaning up goo and blood, collecting food for later. Peeta sits stubbornly on the blue sofa, watching us work. When we are ready to leave, he is the only one not standing.

"I'm not going," he says. "I'll either disclose your position or hurt someone else."

"Snow's people will find you," I tell him.

"Then leave me a pill. I'll only take it if I have to," Peeta bargains.

"That's not an option," Jackson says impatiently. "Come along."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

"We'll knock you out and drag you with us, which will both slow us down and endanger us," says Homes.

"Stop being noble! I don't care if I die!" He turns to Katniss desperately, eyebrows drawn together. "Katniss, please. Don't you see I want to be out of this?"

She hesitates, looking torn. I wonder if she's really considering killing him. I feel contempt for her bubbling to the surface, but then I think about what happened to Mags and I wonder if I'm any different. "We're wasting time," she says finally, scowling at Peeta. "Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?"

Peeta gets that murderous look in his eye and puts his face in his hands, defeated. But after a few seconds he stands up.

"Should we free his hands?" Leeg 1 asks, reaching for him.

"No!" Peeta shouts, bringing his handcuffs to his chest.

"No, but I want the key," Katniss says. Jackson hands it to her without protest and she slips it in her pocket.

Homes removes the panel to the maintenance shaft in the closet and we realize quickly that there is another problem. The tunnel is too narrow for Castor and Pollux to crawl through with their gear on. They remove the suits, detaching small emergency backup cameras. I don't know why they would want to film any of this, but no one questions it. The meat of the problem is that the suits don't fit down the trash shoot, so we have nowhere to leave them other than the closet. If the Peacekeepers open it, which they most likely will since this is the only logical means of escape, they will know exactly which route we took.

Single file, we sidestep across the shaft, passing one apartment and breaking into the second. It is easy to find the tube, which is behind a door labeled _Utilities_. "It's why no one ever wants the center unit," Messalla huffs. "Workmen constantly coming and going and no second bath. But the rent is considerably cheaper." I can't stifle the amusement on my face.

We open the latch and stare down into the darkness until our eyes adjust. The smell isn't pleasant—a mixture of mildew, sewage, and dirt. Pollux clings to his brother's wrist as he stares down the tunnel, swallowing heavily and looking absolutely terrified.

"My brother worked down here after he became an Avox," Castor explains hollowly. "Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn't see the sun once."

I try to imagine what it would be like to live underground for five years without ever seeing the sun or having fresh air on my skin. I can't do it.

"Well, then you just became our most valuable asset," Peeta says after a long, baffled pause. Castor laughs and Pollux smiles gratefully.

We each climb the ladder down into the tunnel. The smell gets fouler as we progress. Pollux is remarkable, though—after a while, Katniss stops using the Holo entirely. Pollux knows the entire layout of the tunnels, everything from the wide, camera-laden Transfer where goods are shipped and Avoxes patrol the halls to the narrower, hazardous labyrinth of pipes that sometimes involve deadly gas, live wires, and giant rats. Pollux thankfully does a great job of keeping us out of those particular pipes.

Six hours later, Katniss finally suggests we take a rest. There is a unanimous sigh of relief through the group. Even Jackson, the most seasoned veteran of us all, is dead on her feet. If Peeta had the energy right now, he could probably make an escape, but he is as tired as the rest of us. Pollux leads us into a utility room packed with machines. They make some noise and have blinking lights, but the room is warm and dry. Pollux holds up fingers to indicate that we have a four hour reprieve before someone checks on the machines again. None of us questions how he knows that. Jackson just draws up a watch schedule. I, of course, get first shift along with Pollux.

It doesn't take long for the others to fall asleep. Everyone is exhausted. Pollux offers me the cans of soup we took from the last apartment. He already has the last can of chicken noodle in his grasp.

"This is one bonus of first watch," I say as optimistically as I can, digging out a can of hardy beef stew. "We get the premium soup. Everyone else has to make do with wimpy, meatless vegetable broths."

Pollux smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. He sips his soup with difficulty, but he doesn't spill a drop.

"How are you holding up down here?" I ask after a while. "It's probably pretty hard to be down here again after so long. It...it takes an incredible amount of courage to do what you're doing."

He shrugs. I wish that I knew his sign language so we could communicate properly. Then again, maybe he wouldn't want to talk to me.

"I know it probably doesn't compare, but I remember how I felt when they announced the Quarter Quell," I continue anyway, sipping my stew. "Yes. You're very brave, Pollux, to do this of your own selfless volition."

Pollux nods this time, slowly, and squeezes my shoulder.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

He shakes his head.

"I just…I knew this girl a few years ago, when I was in the Capitol. She was part of my prep team during my first Games. The President made her an Avox because she kissed me in my dressing room. She was in her late teens then, with really beautiful caramel colored hair and brown eyes. She probably had three round scars under one of her eyes, too. Her name was Aurora. Do you…does she sound familiar?"

Pollux frowns in thought for a long time, but eventually he shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic look. I wonder how often he gets asked questions like that. Probably more often than he appreciates. "Thanks, anyway," I mutter. We finish off our soup in silence.

After my hour is up, I wake up Castor for his shift. I also go to wake up Jackson, but Pollux signs at his brother, who stops me and tells me that Pollux wants to keep his shift all night long. "He can't sleep down here," he explains solemnly.

"Okay." I fill Castor's vacant spot beside Leeg 1. The brothers don't make much noise—I hear the rattle of soup cans as Pollux offers Castor food, and the aluminum pop of the lid peeling off. Then nothing.

My eyes close themselves from exhaustion. The darkness behind my eyelids is as black as ashes.

* * *

><p><strong>A short chapter, but the next chapter is the last one and then the epilogue. Brace yourselves...!<strong>


	71. M: The Capitol: Flash Before My Eyes

**PART FOUR: The Rebellion**

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he **C**apitol - **F**lash **B**efore **M**y **E**yes

* * *

><p>Katniss and Pollux wake the rest of us up around seven. It feels good to have a rest, and it's clear that sleep has had a rejuvenating effect on the entire group. We're yawning and quickly collecting our things when Katniss hushes us, frowning. "I hear something," she whispers.<p>

We all listen intently. I can hear it, too, nearing. It's a quiet, gentle hiss coming from the tunnel, sounding out two distinct syllables.

"_Katniss_."

In an instant, everyone is on their feet, alert, eyeing the darkness with fear. The second whisper comes from behind us, too close. Katniss wheels around, arrow notched in her bow, and points it at Peeta. His eyes are blank as he crawls toward the tunnel. His mouth forms the word, but it isn't his voice. "_Katniss_."

A chill goes down my spine. This is something dark, something evil. I hear the name again from down the tunnel, the mutts or whatever these things are responding to Peeta. Katniss has evidently reached the same conclusion, and draws back the arrow.

Peeta suddenly jars himself into consciousness, life returning to his eyes. He turns his head to the person prepared to kill him, as alarmed as the rest of us. "Katniss! Get out of here!"

"Why?" she asks. "What's making that sound?"

"I don't know," says Peeta. "Only that it has to kill you. Run! Get out! Go!"

Katniss relaxes her stance, looking at us each in turn. "Whatever it is, it's after me. Now might be a good time to split up."

Everyone erupts with a reason to _not_ split up. Katniss blinks and nods. She begins giving orders like a pro, suggesting we disperse the weapons evenly—I give one of my guns to Pollux, Jackson and Leeg 1 do the same for Castor and Messalla. We clean up everything and move out, venturing into the pipes.

The hissing is clearer, but easier to determine a location for. The mutts are still far behind us, but likely they are faster and have more stamina than we do. Our only hope is to reach the President's mansion before the mutts reach us, so we bolt down the tunnel, all attempts at sneakiness gone.

Soon the hissing becomes screams. Anguished, guttural, wordless screams that fuel nightmares, bouncing off the walls so it sounds like the earth itself is screaming. "Avoxes," Peeta says. "That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him."

"The mutts must have found them," says Cressida.

"So they're not just after Katniss," Leeg 1 murmurs.

"They'll probably kill anyone," Gale points out. "It's just they won't stop until they get to her."

"Let me go alone," Katniss suggests again, looking around at us sternly. "Lead them off. I'll transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission."

"No one's going to agree to that!" Jackson snaps.

"We're wasting time!" I tell them, aggravated. The screams have stopped and the whispers are getting louder, more frequent, closer. Katniss shoves Pollux forward and we begin running again, running until we hit a stairwell that leads down.

"We can't go down! They're down there, too!" Gale says. He's right—the whispers drift up from below us, ominous and malicious. "_Katniss_. _Katniss_." The person in question starts gagging violently, covering her mouth to keep from retching. Jackson orders masks on. I catch a whiff of the roses before I slip it over my face.

Instead of putting on her mask, Katniss spins away and runs into the nearest tunnel, which happens to be the Transfer. It is much cleaner than the pipes, candy-colored and lined with neat white brick walls.

We follow her as she bolts down the empty Transfer, eliminating pods in her path. She blows up one full of flesh-eating rats. She steps carefully across the floor under which lies a meat grinder. "Stay behind me!" she orders. Not seeing the unmarked pod just beyond the meat grinder territory. Stepping right into its path.

"Katniss!" I'm nearest to her, so I lurch forward and pull her back. Gale fires two arrows, but it's no use. The golden beam engulfs the person farthest behind. Melting the skin right off Messalla's bones. Messalla, who I saved in the alley, whose heart I pumped back into beating.

Peeta is yelling something, and suddenly we're moving again, running forward, stumbling over our own two feet. We reach the intersection just before the meat grinder. The walls explode on either side of us with the ring of gunfire, sending clouds of plaster raining down. A squad of Peacekeepers issues from another corridor, firing weapons at us. We stand our ground and fire back. There's nowhere for us to go—on the other side of the intersection lies the meat grinder, which will take too long for us to disable. Luckily, we're hitting more of them than they are of us. It looks like we'll make it, even if they outnumber us.

Then the mutts appear.

They come from the tunnel where the scent of roses was. They are about the size of a fully-grown man, white and reptilian, with long tails, hunched backs, lizard heads that jut forward. The four of them skitter through the Peacekeepers, crawling over dead bodies and clamping their jaws around live ones, ripping off limbs and renewing the screams.

"This way!" Katniss cries. She presses herself against the wall and skirts around the pod, taking a right to avoid it. When we're all safely behind her she fires an arrow and activates the meat grinder, sending huge metal teeth sawing through the tile and plaster at a terrifying speed. She stumbles and grabs Pollux's arm. "Forget the mission. What's the quickest way above ground?"

Pollux begins running down the corridor. We all follow him. When I look back, the lizards are leaping over the meat grinder, one by one. Jackson sees them, too. She screeches to a stop, clenching the gun hard in her fist.

"What are you doing?!" I shout. "Come on!"

Wordlessly she takes a knee and aims at a lizard, firing. It hits home, a squirt of pinkish blood exploding from its shoulder. "Go, Odair. I'll hold them back."

I stand there, gawking at her. I feel like dragging her with me, forcing her to come, but I know that we don't stand a chance without her. Leeg 1 hurries and stands next to her, firing her own weapon. "I'm staying, too," she declares. "Go, Finnick. She needs you more than she needs us."

I know they're right. But it doesn't feel right.

I turn and run, leaving them for the lizards.

As we run, the tile becomes concrete and the tunnel becomes a pipeline. Before long we're crawling through the main sewer, slopping through human waste. Below us is a festering pool of chemicals, the surface of which is on fire in places and bubbling suspiciously in others. We carefully crawl along the ledge, across the bridge. Once we make it to the other side, Pollux pats a ladder that enters a shaft. The way out.

Katniss checks behind her and does a double take, frowning. "Wait! Where are are Jackson and Leeg 1?"

"They stayed at the grinder to hold the mutts back," Homes tells her solemnly.

"What?" Katniss starts for the bridge, but Homes grabs her, yanking her back to safety.

"Don't waste their lives, Katniss. It's too late for them. Look!" He points to the pipe from which we just emerged, where the lizards are already appearing, struggling to cling to the slippery edge.

"Stand back!" Gale shoots an explosive-tipped arrow at the foundation of the bridge, collapsing it. It sinks into the pool with a sizzle.

I'm foolish enough to think that's the end of it, just for a second. The mutts hiss Katniss's name with a new fervor, twisting and contorting with rage, their half-human, half-reptilian features frothing and foaming with the blood of their victims. Fury fills me. That blood could be Leeg 1's. It could be Jackson's. It could be anybody's.

Then the first one jumps into the pool.

I expect to see it writhe in pain, but it doesn't. It just begins swimming. Swimming, in a pool that only seconds ago _dissolved_ a concrete bridge. The others follow, more and more exiting the tunnel, much more than four, more than ten, more than twenty. And endless supply. Even through the mask I can smell the overwhelming stench of roses. It makes me lightheaded. Everyone begins firing at them without restraint, emptying our clips, shooting until our weapons are practically useless. I even see Homes throw the empty gun at one of the lizards to knock him off the ledge.

Finally I pull the trigger and my gun clicks. I follow Homes' example, tossing it at a lizard that is too close for my taste, crawling from the pool to the ledge. "Let's go!" I shout. Katniss is in a state of hysteria, too panicked to give orders. She just keeps shooting at the mutts, even though the bullets aren't making much of an impact on their tough white skin. Gale wraps his arms around her and has to carry her from the ledge to the ladder, forcing her to climb up after Pollux. "Climb!" he screams at her, putting her hands on the rungs. "Climb!"

She does, shaking violently, climbing. I take the trident from my back and stab at a lizard. Castor yells when one clamps on his leg and pulls him into the pool. I aim and throw, hitting the lizard squarely in the back, but it's too late for Castor. He's the one writhing in the chemicals, ignited by blue-green flame.

The trident comes back to me like Beetee designed it to do. Peeta is crawling up the ladder now. He doesn't have a weapon. I slash at a lizard that comes at me, mouth foaming pink. A lizard jumps on to the ledge, almost on my ankle. I stab him until he goes slack and slips back down.

Now Cressida is climbing. I begin inching toward the ladder, ready to get out of this hell, ready to go back to Annie's arms, ready to just curl up into a ball and cry. My trident is slick with blood. Homes shouts something at me, and I turn and jab at a mutt that was coming at me from behind. When I turn back, a lizard has leapt on him and is dismembering him, bathing in his blood. All I can think is that his wife will be stained red.

There are three lizards on land now, and more coming. Gale and I reach the ladder at the same time, bumping backs. We look at each other for a long time. We both know that there's only time for one of us to go, for one of us to climb the ladder and make it out safely.

I want it to be me. I want it to be me so much. I want to be the one to climb the ladder. I want to make it home to Annie, to keep my promise that I would return, to be free of all this fighting. Maybe I'll take her on a boat and we'll just sail the sea forever, we'll see where it takes us, we'll see if there's a foreign land full of peace and love and harmony. Maybe we'll raise children there, children who will never know the words 'hunger' or 'violence' or 'pain.'

But it can't be.

"Go," I tell Gale, stepping forward. "She needs you more than she needs me."

I don't know who I'm talking about in that moment, when Leeg 1's words come from my mouth. Katniss? Annie? Maybe even Panem itself? I don't know, but the words are true. Gale nods and begins to climb.

I turn to the lizards and slice. They keep coming at me endlessly, swinging their tails at me, clawing at me with their talons, grabbing me with them. One of them gets its jaws around my leg and pulls. I scream as pain surges up the lower half of my body, knocking me to the ground. It goes off with my leg.

I'm still swinging my trident, still stabbing. Lizards are overtaking me, crawling over me. I'm getting weaker. The world is fading around me. I can't see.

Then I see the mast of a boat. My boat. The one I grew up on. The piece of junk that I lived on for fifteen years, where I cleaned up my father's messes. The boat that rocked me to sleep at night. The boat that I wished for more than anything after my first Hunger Games, only to find that it was sold and destroyed because my father had less faith in me than the boat did.

I see the parachute. The one that was my salvation. The one with the golden trident that came down when I needed it most, when the Angel of Death was upon me. I always wondered who paid for that trident. I never found out.

I hear Mags's laughter, see her smiling face. It is so real, I can almost believe she's here next to me. And then I see the pink sky under which she died, that cruel, mocking pink sky that turns red in my nightmares.

Beetee's trident. Not like it is now, soiled and bloodied, but new and shiny and full of kinks. Errors that I had to figure out, that I had to correct. This trident and I put ourselves back together. There is no weapon I would rather have in my hands in this very moment. Not even that golden trident. This one, this one means the world to me.

Annie is walking toward me in her wedding dress. It's green, flows around her, beautiful and lavish and nothing compared to her radiant glow. Annie, the love of my life, my wife, my survivor, my darling, darling Annie. The girl in the armor that no one else can see. The sanest person I have ever met. Please, don't let her be alone. She's lost everything. I'm the last person she has in the world. Please, don't let her be alone.

I see waves breaking over rocks. I remember this. It's my first memory. How strange that it is my last memory, too?

But it's not. It's not my first memory. There is a boy climbing on the rocks, just like me, with hair just like me and eyes just like mine, but he is not me. A woman stands behind him, beautiful in a green wedding dress. When he turns, he has her nose, her freckles, her smile. This is not my first memory. No, this is not my memory at all.

When I open my eyes, I'm not in pain. I see the lizard as it comes toward me, mouth open wide for the kill, but I'm not looking there. I'm looking above me, at Katniss, as she drops something down the tunnel. The blinking Holo. It falls, slowly, and explodes in the air, like a flower blooming. The flames spiral down the tunnel, reaching for me. A girl on fire, taking me into her warm embrace.

* * *

><p><strong>...And that's a wrap. That's Finnick's life and death. This isn't the last chapter; all that's left now is the epilogue, which will be in a surprise character's point of view. I'm going to do my big long author's note now, though, to get it over with.<strong>

**This is the end of a two-year project. Yes, it's hard to believe, but I started this in 2011. It didn't turn out quite the way I expected it. There were times when I wished I would have just done his first Games and been done with it. In the end, though, I'm proud of this. Two years is a long time, and I stuck it through to the end. I'd like to thank all my readers who did the same, the few of you who gave me the encouragement I needed to complete this. I'd like to give special notice to HauntedSilver, who reviewed for nearly every chapter and gave consistently detailed, helpful reviews. Thank you, HauntedSilver, and the rest of you readers who have made it to now, for all your support!**


	72. E: District Thirteen: Promises

**Epilogue**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>istrict** T**hirteen - **P**romises

* * *

><p>She doesn't believe them when they tell her.<p>

I am there in the hospital with her when the footage runs live. We all see it—Peeta's rampage, the black wave, the explosion. All of it. We see their faces flash across the screen like I saw those faces in the night sky so many years ago.

The hospital ward is a mixture of emotions. There is a lot of anger and sadness, yelling and crying. I feel a sense of hopelessness, of weightlessness, like being suspended in midair, like the world around me isn't real, like this is all a dream. I've felt only bitterness for so long. It's hard to remember how to feel anything else.

She is there with her eyes glued to the screen the entire time, watching with horror as her husband perishes. I see a tear slip down her cheek. I watch her whole body collapse in itself. I feel bad for her, but I don't even want to try to comfort her. That would just end in disaster, like it always does when we interact.

The chubby blonde one is crying, too, but she doesn't do it all prettily. Her face gets red and blotchy and her nose drips snot. I guess she's crying for Katniss or Peeta or Gale, someone from her district. More likely she is crying for everyone else's suffering. She seems like the kind of idiot who does that.

She wraps her arms around Annie and must say something along the lines of, "It's okay, he's in a better place," because all of a sudden Little Miss Sunshine isn't so pretty and delicate anymore.

"He's not gone!" she screams. She pulls out of Delly's grasp, her face red and her eyes bright green, like a cat's. "He's not dead! He's not! He's not!"

"Oh, Annie—"

Annie doesn't let anyone touch her. She just keeps screaming, "He's not! He's not!" Sometimes she says something logical, like she won't give up hope until they find the body, until there is more evidence than just the video and the Capitol's gloating. But mostly it is screaming.

Eventually they have to hold her down and sedate her. And, of course, they bunk her with me.

"It'll be best if she wakes up to a familiar face," a doctor tells me as she lays Annie in the bed next to mine.

"I doubt I'm the familiar face she wants to see," I respond.

"I know your history, but surely you can empathize with her. After all, you were friends with him, too, weren't you, Johanna?"

I just give her a blank look. "You obviously don't know much about me, do you?"

After the doctor leaves, I stare at Annie for a long time. She's all I have left of Finnick Odair, that stupid pretty boy who somehow found a way in to the shadow of my heart. I wish she didn't cover her ears after everything I say, or whisper to herself, or stare off into space. I wish she was more like Katniss, tougher and meaner and easier to relate to. I feel a sharp pang in my chest when I realize that I'll never see her again, either.

I know that in light of Finnick's death I should probably feel some kind of deep emotional bond to Annie, but I don't. I don't know if you could even say that Finnick and I had a deep emotional bond. It was more like we understood each other. We had a symbiotic relationship. He kept me from doing stupid stuff, reminded me why I had to stay alive. I don't really know what I did for him. Maybe he just liked looking at my sexy body.

I am definitely obligated to take care of Psych Ward over there, but I know it won't happen. She's got plenty of others who will do that—Delly and Greasy Sae and probably Haymitch. She doesn't need me breathing down her neck, too. Hell, if she asked me to off her, I wouldn't blame her. I'd probably do it.

She mumbles something in her sleep. Her eyes flutter open later. They roam around the room until they rest on me. "Johanna," she whispers. "…what…where…?"

"You showed your crazy," I tell her, looking at the ceiling. "They sedated you and brought you in here. Finnick's dead, Annie. The President blew him up."

Her face contorts into something like disgust and anguish. She rolls over so she's facing away from me, toward the white wall of our room. I hear her muttering something to herself. After a while it starts to get annoying.

"Either speak up or shut up," I snap. "I'm tired of listening to that noise. It's like static."

"Finnick wouldn't do that," Annie says louder. She sounds so confident I have to do a double take to make sure that it's the same girl. She's looking at the ceiling like me, her face calm and still. "He promised."

"Oh, please," I scoff, sitting up on my elbow. "What did he promise you? Did he tell you it wasn't dangerous? Did he say he'd come back? He lied to you, Annie, and you're a fool if you believe him."

"Finnick doesn't lie to me!" Annie shouts.

"Really? He _never_ lied to you? He told you about the plans for the Quarter Quell? He told you about District Thirteen? He told you about everything he did in the Capitol, about every sleazy woman he fucked?"

"Shut up! That wasn't his fault! He couldn't help that!"

I know I crossed a line, but I don't care. "What, are you going to cover your ears now? Are you going to go off into Annieland? You know he called it that behind your back. He probably didn't even have to make an _effort_ to fool you—you're too busy blocking out the world that you don't even see what's right in front of you! If you don't like something, you close your eyes against it. You're weak and pathetic. I could never understand what he saw in you."

Annie buries her face in the pillow, clutching it in her fists. I lay back down. There's a heat rising up from my chest—I'm getting ready to cry. Damn. I hate crying. It's not going to happen, not now, not ever again.

Little Miss Sunshine mumbles something from her pillow. I'm just pissed off enough to growl at her to speak up or shut up again.

"Finnick…never told me the specifics," she says quietly. "I knew there was something special happening in the Quell, but he wouldn't tell me because then I'd be in danger. He didn't tell me about District Thirteen because he said he didn't really know anything about it himself. And he told me whatever I wanted to know about…about the Capitol women, no matter how painful it was for both of us. He calls it Annieland in front of my face, too, not just behind my back. He wants to go there one day. And you might think I'm weak and pathetic, but that's not all he sees in me. You can't sum up a person in just two words."

"…Stop talking about him in present tense," I say after a long pause, shifting my gaze back up to the ceiling. "He's dead, stupid."

"I'll believe it when I see a body," Annie retorts, doing the same. "Until then, I'm not giving up hope."

We lay there in silence for a long time. I can't bring myself to sleep. Finally, someone comes to check on Annie and, at my vehement request, takes her to a separate room.

I wonder if they'll actually show her the body, or if there will even be a body to show her. Which will do the most psychological damage? Seeing the mangled remains of her husband on a metal slab, or the lack of closure that will leave her uncertain for the rest of her life? I guess it doesn't really matter—the only person I can think of that is more psychologically damaged than Annie is me.

The noises from outside attract my attention. Slowly I crawl out of bed and pad into the busy hospital, wandering around until I come across a group of frantic medics and patients. Obviously something has happened in these few hours I've been dormant—the bitterness and anger have become merriment and profound suffering. I hear screaming and turn to find that the source is Katniss's mother, who is in hysterics and is fighting off Greasy Sae and Gale's mother. Haymitch ducks from the crowd surrounding her and backs away solemnly.

I hurry over to him and grab his arm. "Hey, big shot. What's going on?"

"We've taken the Capitol," he says hollowly.

A grin splits my face in two. I punch him in the arm, hard. "It's about damn time! I was wondering when all this was going to pay off!"

"There's something else you should know, too," he continues with a sudden sense of urgency. "We were wrong about Katniss's squad. It turns out some of them did escape the blast. They're part of the reason that we were able to overthrow the President."

"Wha…?" For the first time, hope bubbles in my chest, big and bright. "Katniss is alive?"

Haymitch nods.

"And Finnick? Finnick's alive?"

"He survived the blast, but reports say that he was…defeated by some mutts in the underground tunnels. I was just on my way to tell his wife." Haymitch puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know he meant something to you."

It is like the floor is falling from under my feet all over again. It is almost made worse by Haymitch's words: _I know he meant something to you_. Not, _I know how much he meant to you_, or _he meant a lot to you_. He just meant _something_, remarkable only because no one else means anything.

"You know she's not going to believe you without a body," I warn.

"There…isn't one," Haymitch admits. "The mutts…"

Bile rises in my throat. "They ate him."

"Yes."

I shrug his hand off my shoulder and shove past him, past all the chaos surrounding Mrs. Everdeen, making for the exit of the hospital. He calls after me, "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to tell her," I say.

Haymitch catches up to me, stopping me with an outstretched hand. "You can't do that! She's been traumatized enough already. Just let me handle it."

"Annie will want to hear it straight," I say confidently. I don't know why I'm even bothering with this, it's only going to become another screaming match between us, but something inside is urging me to do it instinctually. And if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's to always follow my instincts. "She'll want to hear it from me. Trust me, Haymitch. Besides, I think you've got enough to handle already." I gesture to Katniss's mother, who they have managed to calm down. She's seated on a cot, staring blankly into space. It's almost worse than her wailing. "What happened, anyway? Shouldn't she be happy that her daughter is alive?"

Haymitch suddenly looks very, very old and tired. "One of them is. Someone sent Prim into battle with the rest of the medics. She didn't make it back."

"Oh," is all I can say. Katniss's kid sister, Primrose Everdeen, is another casualty of war. I didn't know much about her, only that she never hurt anybody, that she only wanted to heal, and that she had a talent for it. It seems like we're sacrificing everything that's good and innocent for this cause. What's left? People like me and Annie and Katniss. The broken ones.

"Okay," Haymitch says, stepping aside. "Go. I'll let you tell her. Just…be gentle. Don't let her do anything extreme."

He tells me her room number and I practically sprint away before he can change his mind. Delly Cartwright fidgets by the door, looking like a timid, pasty mouse. My nose wrinkles in distaste.

"Oh! Johanna, what are you doing here?" she asks, surprised. She always seems a little bewildered in my presence, like she expects me to be off demolishing cities or eating the fingers of small children, or something.

"I need to talk to Annie," I tell her. "She in?"

"Yes…but she won't let anyone see her. She refuses to—" Delly lets out a little shocked squeak when I push past her and open the door to Annie's room, knowing from experience that they don't have locks. I turn back to Delly, whose eyes are wide at my breach of privacy.

"Don't bother us, this is official, important business," I say. Then I slam the door in her pasty, mousy face.

I stare at the door for a second, gathering my thoughts. Delly isn't pounding on it in protest, so I guess she's not as stupid as I gave her credit for. I don't hear anything behind me. I don't sense anything, either. I might as well be in the room alone.

Slowly, I turn around. It takes me a second to find Annie. She isn't laying on the bed or seated in a chair—she's curled up in the corner with her knees to her chest, staring at nothing just like Mrs. Everdeen. I don't know what's happened since the nurse removed her from my room, but she looks bad. She looks like she did back in the Capitol, except cleaner. But the terror is there. The terror, the loneliness, the hopelessness, the confusion. The crazy. It's there. Like someone has just killed an Avox in front of her like they used to, just to get her screaming, to see if she'd say anything valuable. Just to hear her scream. To hear us scream.

I push the thoughts away, taking a few deep breaths.

"You were right, Annie," I say, not even bothering to beat around the bush. "He survived the blast. But he didn't survive the battle. They confirmed it for real, this time. He's dead."

"I know," she whispers.

"Who told you? This information is—"

"No one told me. But I knew he wouldn't break his promise," Annie breathes. She drags her nails across her forearm, drawing blood. "He wouldn't break his promise."

She's not making any sense. "Annie, he's not coming back. But it's not his fault. That's not a promise he could keep."

"He kept it!" Annie shrieks. "He came back…h-he came back…"

"What are you talking about?"

She looks at me for the first time, her eyes green and bright with tears and agony. Her lips form the words, but I think she says them a couple times before the message becomes clear.

"I'm pregnant."

I can only stand there and stare at her. What do I say to that? Congratulations? My brain goes numb. Annie's eyes shift to the floor, but the paralysis doesn't subside. She starts rocking back and forth, words tumbling out of her mouth in sobs so powerful I can barely understand her.

"The…the doctor told me…when she examined me after we left…she tested me…and I knew, I knew when she told me…when she said, 'Congratulations, you're going to be a mother'…I knew then that he was gone. He wouldn't have left a part of himself…for me to have…not like this, not now. Not unless…" She bursts into ragged gasps, tears flowing down her face. "Oh, gods…_Finnick_…"

I sink to the floor, resting against the door. A baby. Finnick has a baby. I remember having a conversation with him one year in the Capitol about children. He said that he didn't think he could reproduce, with all the sperm killers he choked down. "I don't want children with any of those women," he'd declared. "There's only one woman who I want to start a family with, and it's never going to happen anyway."

It did. And he'll never get to see it.

I crawl over to Annie and grab her hands before she can make a bloody mess of her face, too. She starts struggling, but I pin her down so she can't move. "Annie. Annie, look at me," I repeat it until she does, until she goes quiet and her eyes lock on mine. She looks like a trapped wild animal. "Listen to me closely. You are carrying Finnick's child. It's the only thing left of him in this world, you know that? You better take care of that baby. I don't care how sad you get, or how angry, or whatever it is you feel. That kid is going to grow up healthy and strong and _alive_, and you're going to be there to raise it. It needs a parent. Do you understand me?"

Annie shakes her head. "Not me…I'll be a bad mother…"

"There is no one else Finnick would have wanted. He told me so himself. He only wanted to start a family with you. That's why he married you. He wanted to have a life with you, and he wanted to _make_ life with you. He loved you more than anything. What he felt for you was real and good and true, something that I can't even begin to comprehend, something that was so rare for him. Don't throw this away because you're afraid. I know you loved him too, and I know you're going to love this baby. That's the most important thing." I take her hands and press them to her belly, where the life is growing. "Have faith in Finnick's decision. Have faith in yourself. You know this is what he would have wanted."

I let go of her hands. She lifts them from her abdomen and stares at them, like she's already got the baby in her hands. When she looks up at me, her eyes are flashing with the strength of motherhood. "He would have wanted this."

"Finnick would have been a good father," I say.

"He would have been great," Annie agrees. "You know…he loved you, too. He loved you in a way I've never seen anyone love another person. He really did."

I shake my head. "He didn't. I represented everything he hated in the world, just like you represent everything he loved. He didn't love me. He just couldn't bear to let me go."

"But you loved him," Annie says, phrasing it almost like a question but not quite. "And you'll love this baby. Come with me to District Four after this is all over, Johanna. Come with me and help me raise Finnick's baby."

I think of the little bag of pine straw in my drawer, of rough bark under my hands and the smell of sawdust and smoke in the air. I think of the snowcapped trees in the winter, sticky sap in the summer, mosquitoes and cicadas and kicking pinecones. I remember the hardy laughter of men at work, calloused hands on my hips and whiskers scratching my neck, jars of pickled vegetables and meats rattling on the shelves. Log cabins puffing smoke, fresh blueberries on my tongue, an axe in my hand.

Home.

"There's only one thing in this world I can bring myself to love," I tell her. "And it's not in District Four. It never was."

"…I understand," says Annie. "Thank you, Johanna."

I see the look on her face, and I know she doesn't need my kindness anymore. I'm amazed I managed this conversation without slapping her at least once—maybe it is because she's the vessel for Finnick's legacy. Or maybe I'm actually starting to like her a little. Or maybe I'm just getting soft. I think I can manage one more act of decency today, though. Because he deserves that much, at least.

So I take her hand and don't let go.


End file.
